The day finds me back within
the purple relief of the gloaming,
all tired and ragged from roaming,
with no thought for where or for when.
The down and the veld stretches over
the great dark expanses of clover,
where all the hawks dip and hover
again and again.
Those sagely bright bird-of-prey eyes,
that cutting and sharply braced form,
that breaks and then joins with the swarm,
to touch earth and then flee to the skies.
But whom have they left in a sodden shelter?
His wing is trailing, out of kilter,
and while they fly all helter-skelter,
he does not arise.
The wing, a white banner, trails defeat,
and beats against the wind to no avail.
The feathers are molting, the body frail,
the movements too slow in retreat.
But even in dying the head is held high,
the eyes imperious, and the cry,
unfaltering, he must deny,
condemn his slow death to deceit.
But why, I ask, so sad to leave,
behind all your petty travails?
For his death the field won't grieve,
nor furl all its goldenrod sails.
Is it worth it to hang on to pride?
And leave all the rest to subside?

The damaged wing is furled now,
held tight against a cold body.
The wind shakes and shivers in mourning.
Then flits off to haunt some other eve.