There is a ridge of air;
The kestrel sits on it
Eight feet above the ground
For an achingly long time.
Not even one feather moves.
Swathed in yellow lupine and
Nasty star thistle, the hill
Is swept by wind.
Clouds hide the sun. I shiver.
The crowds have thinned, the hikers
Left behind down a thousand feet
Horses heading for the trailers.
Harrier glides low over the ground,
Comes to me, curious
Arcs languorously away. For a moment
I am ten thousand feet higher,
A thousand miles east.
