Stanza 2 Summary

Lines 18-20

I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk; but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bones too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved. 

• Well this is new. The speaker, coming to us loud and clear, says that it would be easier for him to kill one of his own species than a hawk. In other words, he feels greater kinship with the hawk than his fellow humans. That's quite a statement.
• The only thing that stops him is the law, which punishes murderers but thinks nothing of bird-killers. To him, that's probably one cruel irony.
• News flash: we're not the center of the universe. With this line, the speaker challenges the whole human superiority complex almost all people have. Why's it so easy for us to kill birds, anyways?
• Okay, so he doesn't want to kill the hawk. But here comes the "but." Wait for it. The great redtail's wing is so messed up, his life is just pain and misery. (Great phrase, "unable misery," sums up the pain of disability.) There's no hope. You know the speaker's going to have to do the deed, even if he thinks whacking a hawk is bad.
• Take a look at those long lines. Line 20 is so long it trails under, messing up the neatness of the poem. The awkwardness might just be deliberate. The lines extend so far, you can almost feel the pressure gravity exerts on them, which just adds to the weight of the hawk's injury.

Line 21

We had fed him for six weeks, I gave him freedom, 

• Hard to know who is meant by "we," but you might imagine the speaker's family has nursed this hurt hawk. You know the type of family that always has a couple of injured or baby animals they tend to? That's probably an accurate picture.
• Six weeks is a long time--long enough to form some serious paternal bonds.
• Both sections of the poem specify a time span. That and the "s" on "Hurt Hawks" are the only clues that these are two different birds, otherwise you might think the two sections were about two different time periods for the same injured animal.
• They might have fed him (at a distance, as in the first stanza? You don't want to risk getting slashed by those talons.), but they don't keep the bird indoors. The speaker says, "I gave him freedom," as if hawks could be given such a thing. What he means is that he didn't keep the bird penned or indoors.
• Listen to the close sounds of "fed him" and "freedom" that give a kind of balance to this line.

Lines 22-24

He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
Implacable arrogance. […]

• Allowed to roam, this hurt bird goes over hill and dale, unable to actually fly or hunt or do much of anything at all.
• He comes back by evening.
• The speaker thinks he's asking to die. Is he? Or is that just a projection of the speaker's own wish? Could he be guilty of anthropomorphizing (giving an animal human traits of motives) the hawk?
• He asks not like a beggar (humble, low, maybe even a little pathetic), but with eyes still full of "the old implacable arrogance." What's implacable mean again? Basically, this is reference to how tough and uncompromising this guy is. Sure, he's ready for death, but he's not about to beg for it.
• Nothing is going to calm or soothe him, not nobody, not no how. He may not be his old self in body, but he hasn't lost anything in spirit.

Lines 24-25

[…] I gave him the lead gift in the twilight. What fell was relaxed,
Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; […]

• They say giving is better than receiving, and in the case of this gift, that is so true. What a euphemism. The truth of this "lead gift" is that the speaker shoots the bird.
• Twilight just adds a romantic backdrop to the end. To see this as a gift, you have to realize how unbearable this hawk's life had become, not just because of the pain. A fierce creature like this hawk lives to be free and independent, to hunt and do.
• The speaker prepared you for this, remember? Back in line 19, he said the great redtail "Had nothing left but unable misery." You know he's going to do the mercy killing.
• After he shoots the animal, he doesn't look away. He's right there, staring at the poor dead bird.
• And what does he see? The feathers fall down, but look how they're described: "relaxed, owl-downy soft feminine."
• It seems like in death, the animal can relax and stop being so ferocious. He's totally macho alive. Now he's soft and feminine in death.

Lines 25-27

[…] but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality. 

• The soft, downy feminine feather might have fallen, but something "soared." But what, exactly? Notice the punctuation, a series of a semi colon, then two colons in quick succession to give this line greater emphasis.
• Between these halting punctuating marks, short, forceful phrases of single-syllable words describe the sight. This is the poet pulling out all the stops, pardon the pun.
• What soared is the "fierce rush." It's so fierce that even the night-herons are freaked out. They "cried fear at its rising."
• There's lots of alliteration and consonance through here (fierce, flooded, fear along with the R sounds of soared, fierce, rush, river, fear, rising, reality), along with the echo of fierce and fear, before, soar. The richness of sound is totally matched by the experience.
• The whole poem ends in a rushing climax, like you might imagine it would feel like to have your spirit "unsheathed from reality," leaving nothing but that broken body and a few scattered feathers behind.
• There's even a clever pun. You've got "soared" (26) and then "unsheathed" (27). Released finally, the hawk's spirit is likened to a sword, sharp, honed, manly, and fierce.