Peregrine Falcons
A gray splintering of light,
mottled wings spear the air.
Their heads sharply applied
as if the wind itself tore through
openings in the sky.
The birds circle and swoop,
circle and swoop.
They are not hunting,
a flickering gravity
is their playground,
the rockface their Jacobs ladder.
They spiral high
then a rollercoaster of ecstasy
tips them back toward the earth
as arrows thrown from a bow.
We onlookers
are left hanging from a ledge of vision.
Whomever lets go first
they alone get to take a photograph
of their passing blur.
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