Above circles a hawk, found place in metropolis
it peers down with a gaze more felt that seen.
It judges us not fit for it's consumption,
but strikes for mouse that wandered from country
sought fit to seize the day.
Above circles of clouds, that swirl
and find a place between the hot humid high,
and the stern low that guards above us,
and see fit to strike us with a dreary rain.
It is cold, cold to my fingers,
even as they clench an umbrella.
It affords scant protection from the wind.
Above us, circles. Circles of power,
of mice that make decisions for us,
to be peered upon by time and tide,
and washed away in history's rain.