On Coffeepots and Paranoia.

       Looking up, our cat presses himself low, 

       belly to pavement as the 

       shadow of a hawk passes beside him 

       on the driveway.

       I watch him from the kitchen window

       while the coffeepot hisses behind me.

       I was at Cascade Park the other day,

       just past the ford, while two hawks screamed,

       tipped their wings to turn in order to make

       better use of the currents.

       In the living room, 

       my son's face is illuminated, 

       technologically angelic,

       his thumbs making quick work 

       of an animated task

       whose purpose eludes me.

       Social media has enabled me 

       to maintain a sense of connection, and yet 

       spend days interacting with no one.

       The coffee pot makes a clicking sound 

       that causes me to become unsettled, 

       like water leaking, or machinery

       gone wrong.

       I can no longer watch a plane 

       tip its wings without 

       at least a small feeling of unease, and 

       realized the other day that even watching 

       hawks do the same

       increases my anxiety.