Deadly Intent.
Over his cliff-top territory glides the bird.
Silent he hunts in an easy-wing searching.
A lone rider of wind-swept
lunchtime sky,
the kestrel stays motionless,
hovering high
for seconds while scanning,
with raptor eyes
every nuance of movement
for ready cause
to swoop with deadly intent,
extended claws
now knifing and open wide
he gracefully dives
leaving me awed and sighing.
This time, as often, his dinner uncaught.
Not always goes he into dusk full-bellied.
He must keep alerted for
waterless rodents
or underground snuffles
of surfacing moles,
all fare for a sky-predator
bridging his bets
for needed dinner by more
keenly-edged
fighting for better wingfold
in down-winding
spin and near life and death
speed of frightening
stoop as his skill tries again.
I caught the swift glory of avian action.
A kestrel feels naught but his majesty.