The Hawk Hunting

I know how he works; I know his mind.
I can see it wheeling, moving as if dancing
Above his prey, a hawk riding the wind,
With keen and hard eyes downward glancing.
I see him wheel, and I feel almost sorry 
For the plot he stops in all its dark glory.

I know how he thinks. I know his mind,
How it sees from on high the smallest things,
And how not even wind can make him blind,
Not even politicians can clip his wings.
With a glance, a flicker, a smile, or a word
He makes treasonous murmurs go unheard.

I know how he sees. I know his mind
And the way that it flies through the traps 
That otherwise would his thoughts bind,
With a few heavy wingbeats and idle snaps
That he makes with his tongue, sharp as a beak.
He is many things, but none are weak.

I know how he flies. I know his mind.
He will not think that I have brought a knife
With me when I came to our tryst assigned,
And that I will use it now to end his life.
Yet when I try it between his ribs to slip,
He opens his eyes, gaze light as a wing-tip.

I know how he thinks. I know his mind.
He gazes at me as the guards take me away,
And the expression in his eyes is past resigned.
The hawk will not find a companion this day.
But though he may be lonely, he is never blind,
Guardian of royalty, hawk riding the wind.