Westerlies from the sea bring billets-doux to the yucca,
whose blades shimmy to the wind's canoodling.

Its branches afford a deep sweet cradle for the crows
on the crown of the tree.
At night its blades whisper lullabies.

By day the red hawk circles, secretly watching as it floats
on currents of air, its edgy lassitude a pretense.
No one is fooled.

But today, in its absence the crows are teasing sea gulls.
“Hurry back,” quivers the yucca; “hurry back.
Hawk is at the nest.”

Suddenly the sky crackles with tribal anger as black warriors
from outlying rookeries swarm and dive at the hawk.
Their ruckus lures a man from his house to watch
the battle swirling across the sky.

In a rush of wings the crows return to their chick
tucked in the yucca's green bower.
Shadows lengthen.
Down below the man gazes upward and thinks
about topping off the branches.