In greys of slate enticing blue,
a plumage of a nobler hue.
Unfurled the morn, the hailed ascent,
such feathered might on killing bent.
A falcon primed and keen aware,
aloft the quiet of tranquil air.
A rush for blood, its quarry seen,
a dove a wing in quaint serene.
Who stoops outwitting sound and scent
in folded speeds of sheer intent.
A form of force in constant prime,
a motion honed in death’s design.
The victim stunned on fleeing wing
into the dark of everything.
A perfect kill of grace and grim;
precision poised: the peregrine.