quivering like a tense arrow,
I think I see a kestrel up on
longaford tor.
it is not
innate, this private familiar.
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![[Un-]Collared Doves](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5c609d0f77b903f8f5ddeef6/1681400533876-XGA71EP64U9ST3F18PMZ/unsplash-image-qscY0de8YUY.jpg)
every time Mum sets the seed
under the magnolia tree, she will
count the collared doves that used
to visit: one time we had four, but…
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four months out from a sunflower bloom.
somewhere outside kyiv is a clearing, budding
sunflowers poke through the snow; turgid,
a burned-out BTR rests its hull against the earth.
all falling through my dreaming.
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I met miss blackbird in june,
her dun dress feathered across her sepia nest
and her bleak eyes set in ochre fixtures,
staring black through me, through the hollowed fronds
of the sambucus tree,
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Hold, fleeting kestrel, hold the draft above the pines.
Inanimate adjuster, one who refines,
who is marvelled, whose great achieve-of is
Stillness. No other living Stillness is as fine
as the windhover’s, who halts
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