High above this snowy field we spot a shadow hovering. When I turn to you and ask, What is it: a vulture or a hawk? your hand drops mine to shade your narrowed eyes from the brilliant winter light. Let it be a hawk, you say, let the beautiful, majestic bird of poetry we read in school soar like a good omen over this spring-surprise of love in our autumn years. And you take my hand to prove it’s already taking effect. But I keep seeing a vulture’s shape in the deep curve of the shoulders, I keep sensing the lurking danger in the happy plot of the story. So let it be a vulture, too, blunt-headed, raggedy, something we don’t want flying over our best moments, to remind us how love can turn, as my anger towards you can do, as your righteousness can scoop my smallness in its claws dashing it from the height of your better, sweeter nature. But let it also be a hawk, high-minded, riding warm waves of thermals in this cold weather.…