The Kestrel

September 10, 2010

Sometimes, I fancy myself a bird.
Not just any bird, mind you, but
A swift bird of prey;
The auburn and grey plumage.
I am a kestrel, a thief of life’s goods.
The hunter of the open plains,
Razor sharp eyes spot movement.
Talons clutch the still moving prey
As I take off again for heaven.
Soaring above the city,
I take no notice of man’s ardor
Or his creativity or construction.
The only thing my mind focuses on
Is what shall be the next target.

I am no eagle, the king of the skies.
To be fair, I have no noble blood.
Instead, I bear the incomparable
Position of having all and being nothing;
Such freedom it gives me!
Savoring each morsel of life
Between every beat of my wings,
The north wind whispers
Its most secret desire:
That all may live like this.



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