The Peregrine
The Peregrine
By Scott L.
High on the breath of heaven’s burning blue,
The peregrine cuts clean through silver air;
A living blade the upper heavens knew,
A flame-fast prayer no earthly snare could bear.
From cloud-lit towers where wild horizons gleam,
He marks the trembling pulse of distant prey;
Time bends itself beneath his piercing beam
As gravity prepares to clear the way.
Then down he shoots — a thundered streak of might,
The world made narrow in his raptor’s eye;
All doubt dissolves beneath his sharpened sight
As wind and will in perfect union fly.
So moves the soul when heaven gives its call:
It trusts the dive — or never flies at all.
