With the breeze over the pines,

a northern angel,

wings spread,

Feathers like fingers,

Feeling, catching  

Every nuance.

A master of energy,

you exploit the faintest

currents of air. 

You hardly seem to move,

No beat, no flap, just

a hint of tilt,  and an

opening like a fan,

of wingtip and tail.  

You close the span,

narrow the profile,

incline the head

bend the wings

and you are a missile,

swift across the valley.

And then, sensing,

A rise of air and heat,

you spread out, stop,   

tilt, spiral

up, up, up,

high, so high,

you are just a dot

against a patch of bluer sky.

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