The Kestrel

by David Thompson

Through my spyglass

I see a bird

Resting on a

Gray snag finger.

A cool breeze sifts

Through colored feathers

As I watch—and linger.

Silently, I breathe a

Smile and lower

The glass.

I wonder if he

Knows I’m watching.

A rustle in the bushes,

And he embraces

The breeze and soars.

Soon he is gone

From sight.

I wonder if he

Knows I’m watching.