expressive peregrine falcons
(photos by sdwildgene)
TO FLY - TO SWEEP,
NO MORE; AND BY A SWEEP TO SAY WE END
THE HEARTACHE AND THE THOUSAND NATURAL FLOCKS
THAT FISH IS HEIR TO: ‘TIS A CONSUMMATION
DEVOUTLY TO BE WISHED. TO FLY, TO SWEEP;
TO SWEEP, PERCHANCE TO DREAM - AY, THERE’S THE GRUB:
FOR IN THAT SWEEP OF DEATH WHAT STREAMS MAY COME
when we have molted off these mortal feathers,
must give us pause. there’s the respect
that makes calamity of so long meals.
for who would bear the winters and famines of time?
th’poacher’s wrong, the large bird’s contumely,
the pangs of despised love, the daylight’s delay,
the insolence of prey, and the spurns that
patient merit of th’unworthy take,
when he himself might his quietus make
with a bare bird claw? who would fardels bear
to squawk and caw under a weary life,
but that the dread of something after food,
the unrelenting hunger, from whose clutches
no hunter returns, puzzles the will.
and makes us rather bear those ills we have
than fly to others we know not of?
thus hunger does make fools of us all.
If Vensir finds a thespian hawk… I am unsure as to how I would react.
Originally from birds of a feather