up on the cliff edge, I
looked out, the open sky
beneath me moved with the pattern of the waves,
bent like how glass bends
when it has hung for decades. and I saw
the kestrel, like a rosary held – moved one
bead on and then one more –
as the air of the prayer kept it hovering.
sand below paler than the bird’s back, and I have never
seen one from above before and I can
not imagine how this moment ends
as, held and holding, the bird
(held by the prayer, by the glass air)
pauses