Ode to Sara Falcon

She listens, she hears: Elegant like emerald Deep like onyx Perfect by nature--like pearl. Mere words, words, words; Fleeting vibrations in air, Noise and fog-- Sharp of focus, she cuts through These extraneous winds Like the very edge of a rich gilded blade, Kin to beautiful things that will never die (and now, neither shall she, being so aptly drawn in these tumbling lines--if I may be so haughty, and what else is a poet to be?) The jealous thunder strains to mimic your name--Sara Falcon: a flowering sigh from Artemis' forests carried down through the ages, from the time of gods--perhaps it be time again? The falcon's cry, circling above like a regal crown, far above, above the understanding of any would-be falconer, failing with his cowardly glove to grasp the situation of her mastery over her native wood -- her talons gripping the sky as if to tear the firmament veil from before our sleep-filled eyes to awaken, enlighten us all, enlivening us deep to our beating cores-- The eye of heaven shines, too bright, sometime-- Goddess Falcon flying: won't you grace us with your native wisdom shade?