Riding updrafts,
looking sharply
at the mouse
below,
with its
telescopic eye--
no drone with pixels,
this marriage
of function and form--
the hawk spirals
down
in a gyre,
Yeats watching
its mystical
inclination,
wings open,
slanted with
purpose,
speed, energy,
clarity married
to the end
result.
He believes
in his calling,
the outcome
already achieved
in its perning feathers,
believes
in the fate
bequeathed
to him in the
fullness
of nonlinear
time
by a hand he
cannot see,
and so he
succeeds
since there is
no division
between purpose
and flight,
flight and
purpose.
The soul within
his brain
simply knows
like a mustard
seed
what is right.
~William Hammett
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