Thunderbird Poem

My falcon hunches, hooded, on my wrist
and digs her talons, sharp as razors, in
to leather-guarded forearm, trembling fist.
She craves the air. I hold her penned within
the compass of my will. I'll let her fly
when time is right, for some raptorial lover
who will read her writing on the sky
and hear the predatory music of her.

I'll loose my falcon soaring from the page,
a live thing made of paper, ink and words.
I'll loose this poem from her printed cage
to join the company of thunderbirds
above the clouds, behind the lightning strike:
electric storm behind an open mike.

Image by Pensiero via Read Write Poem.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside