print previewback EMILY LEITHAUSER
Shadow
As the plane descends, its shadow runs
ahead, widens, spreading like a bruise,
one wing slanted toward the lit
and lettered gates below, and I remember
the hanging circles of a hawk
above the rocks, a vole or squirrel caught
in talons, beating the air. The creature
doesn’t see the massive wingspan cast
its image below: a stingray coasting
slowly, closely, over uneven ground.
The prey cannot see its shadow
held inside the hawk’s, or know its captor
as a deepening of water,
a darkening of rocks, or an eclipse
that wanders; cannot fear the far-off
nest—but only senses rushing air,
only knows the angled fall. 
