Talon

In the hush of dawn, a raptor rides the wind,
Its silhouette a slate‑grey comma against the waking light.
Below, the fields ripple like green‑tinted silk,
While shadows stretch their fingers across the earth.

A talon, curved and keen, descends like midnight’s thought—
A hook of obsidian, polished by countless skies,
Gripping the pulse of vole, the heartbeat of mouse,
Turning life’s fragile thread into a sculptor’s grip.

Each ridge tells a tale of ancient aeries,
Of cliffs where the sea whispers to stone,
Where the bird’s fierce gaze scans the horizon,
And the talon, faithful, remembers every strike.

When the sun dips low and the world sighs amber,
The creature returns to its nest of twigs and down,
Leaving behind the echo of its grasp—
A reminder that strength often lies in the quiet curve
Of a single, steadfast talon.