I slept badly.
The night was an orchestra
of old dreams.
Broken shards
that cut me,
picking up their sounds and shapes.
Groaning in a doze,
I longed for morning.
Morning was gray as ash.
I stepped into the cold
looking through the canopy
of oaks and maples
on the street,
when the glide of a bow stroking
a cello of silence,
swooped under the branches,
to a limb above me.
A falcon stared at me
from his perch,
a wanderer from a bottomless world,
imperious,
an aristocrat
that lived in a pillar of light,
beyond intelligence.
Master of a void that swallows
everything.
I shuddered in awe
as he gazed into my eyes,
as if my soul were estranged and he
called it to return
to the wild country
of its original joy.