A gyrfalcon stares through the camera lens,
opalescent eye a world entire.
I am swept into its atmosphere, caught
by its pearly beak. To one side,
a hater types a disdainful photoshopped, bent
on puncturing communion.
Why do you always sink? inquires the bird’s
cocked head. I don’t know,
I reply. Perhaps it’s our leaden marrow,
heavy skin. I crave
your herringbone feathers, your pinnate clouds.
Every day, we ramp up damage.
Teach us, instead, to ride contemplative thermals.
The gyrfalcon has no time
for this. Her empty branch makes it plain,