Posted: November 3, 2013 in Chat
Tags: , , , ,

The beating of a strong heart in his hand.

His other cupped then lifted the body, the feet

for a moment sprung, then relaxed, as he turned it;

the feathers fitting perfectly together, creating

one marvelous creature.










His probationary year wished the dullards of that town

forced by law to this, tend and practice with birds,

learn sufferance.  This need to make lives better –

and the expense asking more and more.


He watched his birds taken by hawks, dropped on

from a height: necks broke under that relentless yoke.

Many secrets make a man mysterious –

and mystery dangerous.

A prize bird,

to what height can this gale take him?




Looked down, saw his own birds fly

then another and another flock,

and his own birds lost direction – the dangers

where hawks still lingered, or birds became new masters

learned for themselves, as if in mockery,

a taste for lark, songbird, swan.


Were his own birds hawks now?

The angle of sight could make it so.




His last view: one of them, or two surely,

safely flew beyond that lifted blade?

  1. viennafamous says:

    I like this a lot. Especially “Many secrets make a man mysterious/and mystery dangerous.” Lovely line.

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