the buzzard.

A beam of light
Through purpled clouds
And there, the buzzard
On his wide wings drifting
Through open air, blushing sky
His lithe frame tilting
No ruler or refrain
Or chains to this crumpled land
Or stone, crevice and creed
And blistered greed
His high cry screeching
Through silence still, of the moors
He’s ever soaring
Higher than the mountains call
Gripped in his claws
The life before, of prey
He crushes, fair price to pay
For an endless day of
Sweeping, diving
Defying gravity and gale
No grasp can hold him
His deep, scarred eyes
Scour every valley, peak and rise
He misses nothing
The power, rippled in his bones
And feathers, stream-line
Fast and lonely
Existence adapted, perfected
To fly above and beyond
This lowly ground
His own master, a beauty crowned
In humble gold and brown.