Sometimes, I fancy myself a bird
not just any bird, mind you, but
a swift bird of prey;
the auburn and grey plumage.
I am a kestrel, a thief of life’s goods
the hunter of the open plains
razor sharp eyes spot movement
talons clutch the still moving prey
as I take off again for heaven
soaring above the city,
I take no notice of man’s ardor
or his creativity or construction
the only thing my mind focuses on
is what shall be the next target
I am no eagle, the king of the skies
to be fair I have no noble blood
instead, I bear the incomparable
position of having all and being nothing
such freedom it gives me!
savoring each morsel of life
between every beat of my wings
the north wind whispers
its most secret desires
that all may live like this