The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

The Brooding Peregrine

Perhaps I'll fly today, perhaps I won't.

This time I'll try something slower, around two hundred
miles an hour.

Should I attack the harlequin duck, so beautiful.

Once and for all, I'll get a sparrow or die trying.

Forget whether or not migrating is worth the effort,
I must move among the world's sad state.

The wind, ah the wind...

Every year, I'm just another empty nester.

When I scree, my own hearing suffers a cry of nothingness.

Why cannot I caw, like other crows, am I not a crow?

To brood or not to brood, my families and loves have flown.

"But O alas, so long, so farre
Our bodies why doe wee forebeare?"

This time, perhaps, I'll speed upwards to the unwary heavens,
touch the empyrean sky.

Every season, filled with strife and death.

I think, therefore I hunt, alas, is this enough?

I would know the languages of gibbons and other primates,
if I had world enough, and time.

Unwary death, I bring such meat to you.

Above thou sun and cloud, and closer I would reach,
so misery to breach.

The poorest pigeon is my own life's fare.

Fly and ride the wind in endless circles, ecstasy and useless

My feet, my talons, spears and constant murder.

The mood comes on me, the sky, the clouds, the earth below.

I wail the mournful tracery of life and death, to soar.

Faster, yet faster still, brutal earth rises to embrace me.

What has made me in this murderous path.

Would not every flight be my last and best reward.

I would not hurt this world, but to live, alas, to brood.


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