How many times have I told this story?
There I was ambling along in search of dessert
inside the orchard when a goshawk dove on me
with outstretched talons.

There I was all dressed in cotton
in the cool of evening, inspecting
the trees for infestation,
when a goshawk harrowed me.

There I was pinned to the ground
like a reprobate with my liver exposed
as a fresh hors d’oeuvre on a dusty plate
when a goshawk circled me in figure eights.

There I was crawling away
behind the trees where the apples hung
like brains, and nothing I said
reminded this bird of who I was.