Soft Flight of Evening Falcon

by Tom Sheehan

World-viewed incandescence; sun up
under his wings with last quick volley,
slipping through a hole in the sky, lilting
the soon-gray aura without a sound,
a fleeted falcon appears above us.

From Yesterday he comes, from Far
Mountains only Time lets go of. Under
wings steady as scissors a thermal
gathers, not sure the joy is ours,
or his. It flings him a David-stone,

racing the Time-catch at heart,
at our throats. There is so much
light falling down from him,
from wing capture, we fall
prostrate. To look in his eye

would bring back volcano, fire
in the sky, a view of the Earth
Earth has not seen yet. In apt
darkness chasing him, in the
mountains where gorge, lake

and river give up daylight
with deep regret, his shadow
hangs itself forever, an evening
falcon sliding mute as a mountain
climber at his work,

leaving in our path next hiker's
quick silence, stunned breath,
the look upward on a frozen
eye and a wingspan  caught
until midnight horizon
halves the moon.