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