The Reader

Two Cooper’s hawks on an electric pole, facing
opposite directions. The larger bird hopped up to the 

top as I neared. I stood there until my eyes hurt.
Our eyes must be on loan. When we die, we 

must take them out and return them to the hawks
that guard the threshold. They will rinse the eyes and 

try to reuse them. If the eyes have seen too much,
they will discard them into a large blue bin. I want my 

eyes to be reused, so sometimes I turn my back to the
sawing. I know this is wrong, but I want someone in 

the future to sense these two Cooper’s hawks, this
eucalyptus, the hummingbirds that travel like flies, 

bursting into my sight like my children used to. I know
my eyes have been used, that they come from a hawk. 

I know this because the wind never bothers me.
Because I prefer sentences that are short of breath. 

Because I like the upper trees, where it is a whole day
ahead. I have now lost my way while writing because 

the Cooper’s hawks are busy in another part of the
neighborhood, and they have taken my eyes with 

them. Maybe we have eyes because it’s easier to
change the subject than ourselves.