Space In Air

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The buzzard climbs

through the windy sky.

He climbs beyond sight

on nothing there,

and finds his height,

his space in air.

He cuts the wind

with the edge of his wing,

slicing the nothing,

the air he is living.

He waits there just watching

the world down below,

searching for something

easy, or slow,

or, better still, dying,

for fighting and killing

is simply too tiring.

I dream that I am him;

the air in my face

gives lightness and grace,

and the world is a whirling thing,

unfurled by my wings;

each creature below

either food or a foe.

I watch him fly

round his circles of sky

and wonder if and how he sleeps

in the forests of his night.

I wonder if his wary dreams

are raptures in his raptor mind.

I wonder will we ever see

where buzzards go to die.