Downpour

A feather bound packet of muscle
sinks through the air,
powered by appetite
and intent.

There is a taught tether
between the dove’s whistling panic
and the dead set
black-eyed gaze
of the Merlin slipping
through the blue.

Alulae unfold,
pocket knives
in the wind,
trimming the tether
deftly
as the Merlin plummets.

I hope the dove forgives
my attention bias.
I’m witness to
a master contortionist, transforming
in conversation
with onrushing air,

a black teardrop,
a lanky menace,
and suddenly
a cliff diver
stained with certainty
Somehow able to arrest their fall
before hitting the sea.

The tether has snapped.
Cut by one of
a hundred other doves
who also departed when the Merlin cast an eye to the field
a few seconds ago.

The doves are returning now.
The western sky
has swallowed the threat,

but
the Merlin’s tether
has me by the throat.