When falcons call

A leathered glove
not clenched, not open,
you fly about the hue.

Sharp and accurate
you serrate the air
with finesse and grace.

Today, on my arm
you stay for a while,
a little longer than usual.

Our friendship through
unspoken words
spills in a mutual trade
of looks.

I admire the stealth of your
flight,
but am happy on your landing,
as you stay a while.

Funny that we fear each other.
I tremor at your claws,
and you know who holds
the gyre.

It's been a while since
last we sat together.

I have always listened
in the distance that binds us,
the only time when you speak,
from way up there.

Only from up there,
do I hear your call.