Twenty eight score of the dance of the moon have past when from the chasm of inhumanity’s edge did I slip to tumble to nestle in its cold and dank womb. Curled up tight yet broken did I lay waiting for Sister Scorpion’s touch to erase the pain away. Come did she but her poisoned pronouncement penetrated not my temple as I did expect. Instead, she with gentle pressure from her pinchers upon the gaping hole where one rib had offered itself to Mother Moon, did she close tight.
The chasm broke its fast that morn with a feast of light. Like a parasite I stole its warmth, letting the crusted blood crack and assume the sparkle of polished ruby in hopes of attracting a thief to steal what Sister Scorpion chose to hold dear. The shadows crept closer and closer to the treasure that lay within a wanting dead man’s chest yet though devilled dirt spun merrily around, none came close to loosen Sister Scorpion’s slumbered clutch. Perhaps it was just I mused, to have lived on the quick to die on the slow. To watch as speck and pebble indifferently lay down with me driven from unseen movements above; not to choose what suited my wants but to behold what others didn’t need. Alas, to slight a poet’s final preference for irony the wind blew up more than dust and debris that day; Brother Falcon happened to be following its lead.
He swooped down then up, to one side then to the other before he perched off to the side of my face. For what he did intend through my welcomed haze I could not tell; to this end he chose that clarity I would have. Thrice did his beak upon me come down, shattering the domed haven over my eyes of mucus, dirt, blood and dried tears so that pupil to pupil did together we stare.
“To give what is not yours to offer belittles not only the ware but the who,” Falcon hissed sternly. “In this action all you have chosen to endear yourself to is naught but fodder for a scavenger.”
With a wince I burst apart the skin that had melded my lips to one to protest but resealed the voice in its chamber as the bird flapped his wing not once but twice bringing up what had missed falling upon me to the forgotten side. His glare for me did not falter.
“If you believe that you are to be a hunter or you are nothing then you deserve this self made disdain,” the Falcon continued. “It is an honour to be prey, for prey serves a purpose whether it runs or scurries –it tries, successfully or with failure, it tries.”
With that Falcon took flight away from the chasm
By: A.B. Thomas-Twenty eight score of the dance of the moon have past when from the chasm of inhumanity’s edge did I slip to tumble