Nirvana

When he became an olding hawk,
his once-terrible stare clouded over
with the milky haze of age,
he chose to die while he could still fly,
before some hungry set of teeth
found him crippled in the brush.

He rose before a rising sun
and soared all day long,
high above the cliffs and crags
he had lorded over.
Then, as the sun began to set,
he climbed so high
that he could barely breathe.

He folded his wings
and fell
through the cold, clear twilight,
his breath silenced,
his heart falling still.

The sun's burning rays
passed unhindered through his chest.
Wings once powerful enough 
to buoy him above the clouds
vanished on the wind.

He never struck solid ground,
his triumphant cry
echoing toward silence
among deaf, immutable mountains
of stone.

Scott Speck
07/02/2002