One day

There may appear

A pale gray

Harrier

Who floats

In the silent summer sun

Wings black-tipped, courrier

Of archaic worlds,

White petal of the ineffable,

Calling

To follow

Only the voice that the unlistening

Never hear,

Only the ever-haunting wind

Outside the walled gate,

To sail off to a high

Cliff still clad in coats

Of scraps of snow

A place of rushing wings

Flickering waters,

And sky-footed goats

Who leap

Where only the graceful go.

 

Written around 2001

 

Photo:  © Michael Miller | Dreamstime.com / Male northern harrier