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Roused from reading

Homage to Catalonia

by a flash of feathers in through the door,

I glimpse a sparrow-hawk

ricocheting around its walls,

missing tomatoes plants,

the cucumber frame,

crashing into a stanchion,

rebounding in panic, causing me to duck,

wary of its hooked beak

and razor-sharp claws.

And as I do, it sees the light

as Orwell did during his time

on the Aragon front,

its barred wings and yellow eyes

arrowing out into the bruised heat

of the late summer day.