I'm up too early   not yet five o'clock winter stripped the corn   to brown broken stalks groundfog hangs low   as if it's still asleep  so thick in places   can't see my own feet my boot tracks stamp   the cold black mud  left behind   from last month's flood but I know my way   as thro the fog I go  down to the bottomland   and the giant live oak       where my friend         the hawk           is sitting         way up high       waiting for              the right time                                  to strike       sometimes I         miss it            that perfect          place and time        where you don't have               to remember                 what's it's like                        to be alive   if I could sleep now   I'd be back     in bed  my feet warm     instead of    cold and wet I can turn     dimly in dawn  those gray limbs     dangling down        like ganglion                where my friend         the hawk           is sitting         way up high       waiting for              the right time                                  to strike       if I had his patience         If I had            his will          I could stand        here and wait                        until       if I had his        instinct            if I had          his eye       wouldn't have              to remember                 what's it's like                        to be alive