She listens, she hears:

Elegant like emerald

Deep like onyx

Perfect by nature—like pearl.

Mere words, words, words;

Fleeting vibrations in air,

Noise and fog–

Sharp of focus, she cuts through

These extraneous winds

Like the very edge of a rich gilded blade,

Kin to beautiful things that will never die

(and now, neither shall she, being so aptly

drawn in these tumbling lines–if I may be so haughty,

and what else is a poet to be?)

The jealous thunder strains to mimic your

name—Sara Falcon:

a flowering sigh from Artemis' forests

carried down through the ages, from the time

of gods—perhaps it be time again?

The falcon's cry, circling above like a

regal crown, far above, above the understanding

of any would-be falconer,

failing with his cowardly glove to grasp

the situation of her mastery over her native

wood her talons gripping the sky as if to

tear the firmament veil from before our

sleep-filled eyes to awaken, enlighten us all,

enlivening us deep to our beating cores—

The eye of heaven shines, too bright, sometime—

Goddess Falcon flying won't you grace us

with your native wisdom shade?