The Falcon

I am the wind-blown falcon hanging high above the bending pines with olives ranked upon the rocks and crags, deep shadowed in the steep inclines. Hung high and braced against clear air my quivered pinions hold me there above the dome and whitewashed walls and bell tower on the Puig de Missa. And then I swing with windsweep flow to hide from men my mastered show while summer's midday heat shimmers over billowed sails and distant crystal sea. And man reposed makes his retreat to dine in lower comfort seat below a wind-flapped canopy, cooler breezed and heavy eyed, at ease, while I again compose my hanging glide with searching eyes that see his close, I see it all below me.