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.
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Author:
Tony Grannell (
Offline) - Published: October 12th, 2025 06:27
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
Offline)
Comments1
Beautifully done my friend. You have painted it well. When a teen a good friend of mine had one and though the rest of us were too afraid to have it mount our arm he would use it to hunt doves. A most beautiful and regal bird it was.
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