From what branch does the falcon take its flight

its golden leaves and feathers on the rise

mad thunderheads and firebirds made of light

electric strobes and spangles in their eyes

the falcon drops into that whorling cloud

its tiny form enveloped in the fray

its shriek is lost in thunder far too loud

the wind turns rain into a bullet spray

but each pierced feather turns to hardened gold

and each tired wingbeat beats the torrent down

until a flashing bird of strength unfolds

ascends above the cloud, above the sound

its shriek announces it is flying still

although its branch is shattered, not its will.