Kestrel

A Kestrel

Holding stock-still in the tumult of a gale
Head bowed in prayer above the great altar below
Eyes fixed in a microscopic doom glare
Reading the land like a line of scripture
The Kestrel meditates in the moment.

His wings have taken a vow of silence
They must not utter a word
The eyes keep a vigil over a tangled
World of secret walkways
No temptation must break their gaze
The heart which beats like a bell
Is hushed to a whisper

A sanctity in such study,
A beauty in this priestly linguist
Who reads and re-reads
And studies and studies
Every line
With care and attention
A textual hunter of the air
Picking, searching, seeking
Between the lines
For the hidden meaning
The holy grail, the cup of life

And there it is, there it is,
The wind whispers
And the Kestrel hovers
Like a dark hand
A levitating stillness
A seething ball of intensity
And Bang! Trap-sprung,
Heat connected
The claws
The staffs of the prophet
Pronounce their final judgement
In a scissoring second
Of revelation.

The wind continues.

The prayer is delivered.

The meditation is over.