Peregrine falcon, you must know
there is a limit to everything
From the feather-rustle touch of
spring rain to the pebbled confines
of your hollowed-out scrape,
the round softness of your mate,
the raucous cries of baby chicks,
the unceasing dictates of predatory days.
And yet —
What do you know of limits,
defier of wind and of gravity,
plunging toward earth in pursuit
of everlasting life?
This poem was written for the April 1, 2016 FPR Impromptu prompt. The poetry generator provided me with the following instructions (paraphrased): Select a sentence or phrase from Stone and Webster journal v. 22 (1915), pp. 2-3, rewrite the sentence to refer to “falcons” and use it as the first lines of a poem entitled “Textures.” Voilà.
The image above is in the public domain.