POEM: The Falcon

The Falcon
By Noble Collins

Slowly descending in a narrowing gyre,
a large grey-brown falcon appears
under low clouds in the late afternoon.

Hungry, thirsty, tired from a long flight,
his cautious calculated circles
conceal a quiet urgency.
Stretched tendons and burning muscles
are barely able to hold the wings outright and taut.

A small outcropping of granite will have to do -
somewhat higher that the surrounding terrain -
a nice little overhang -
a good vantage point from which to hunt -
safe haven from predators -
some blessed rest at last.

The landing will be tight,
but a commitment is made,
and down he comes.

He is in desperate need of a place to rest -
to eat and drink - and to ponder.

***

Oh, he heard the falconer very well.
The shrill call came and hand motions were part of the agreement.
"I display my amazing skill and you keep me in comfort."
Only, one time, he no longer wanted to be kept.

Higher and higher he soared.
A vast world appeared - expanding beyond each horizon -
more green - more blue - sweeter air.

All warnings ignored.

Left behind, much lower -
indignant desert birds squawked,
but could not escapt their shadows.

***

He wanted only to be free
to swoop into green pastures, and drink from still waters -
not to disturb the world but to engage it -

He would eat fresh grain,
and carry seeds to far-off places.

More and more, however
each horizon was a mirage - the air more rank -
the land below devastated and desolate -
burnt stubble where there had been crops -
dead fish on the banks of still water.

He dared not land - could not land, in fact -
each scene more threatening than the last -
strange clouds off to one side near Jerusalem -
broken seals lying on bloodied rocks
near the isle of Patmos.

There were no shrill whistles to return -
only wails and moans.

So, on he flew -
on and on, until now.

***

Now, at last
in stony sleep, he rests,
but there are distant rumblings even here -
on Ararat.