Red Kite
We are the same. Me. The clouds. Sky.
Sometimes racy. Sometimes a slow
glide, a sharp turn of grace, slung
on an updraft catching the world’s
breath through my tail. My day is the wing.
Across the hills, forests, fields, rooftops,
I cast a searching eye for a hapless prey.
I am the dark shadow that flays the ground;
the shrill call that pins the sky. I leave no trace
though I make and criss-cross a million
sky-tracks every day. When the last light
leaves the sky I roost. A tree-top rest.
There in the dark I feel the stars, taste
the sharp cool drift of a winter night.
by Val Harris
