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Let loose the falcons

let their jesses fly

their fierce wings cast no shadows

in a sunless sky

their yellow glares

click swiftly through

steep stoops -- the dive, the deadly

tear -- reflecting nothing

while absorbing all.

So actors float, then

swoop to seize small motions

that may body thought.

So artists fold their

wings and drop like stones

to pounce on transient

hues. So hunger fuels

those flights that yearn

to enter other lives

and see with different sight:

a risky game where hunters

can be prey and feathered

death is turnabout, fair

play. Reminders that when

streaking back towards lures

and resting hoods we may

go missing; burn up

like the phoenix; or by chance

announced by ankle-bells


From Falcons (July 2020)

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