For The Peregrine

Perched on the finish, the falcon feeds
her young, on the last lavish ledge,
the top rung of the dormant chimney
a colonial column, taut still,
unbudged by the different approach
of Time to an arm wrestle,
up on that lip the falcon,
even from the dirty, rascally ground
even as a shape, overseeing offspring,
is eye catching. Wood pigeons,
souls as fat as ducks and magpies
and crows haggle and hop in tree tops, all
surveyed, all prey
for the peregrine.