It is such a small strip of blue

It is such a small strip of blue

As seen here from the window

An illusion of course, as it is endless,

Even though that too is illusory

There is no sky, just deep space.

The butterfly is so small and fragile

But it fills a void

Flickering across the gap between one roof and the next.

A Red Kite flies on high

Until it stops

Waiting for the moment

When it drops

Disappearing behind the house next door

Going for the kill

Does it feel the thrill

Of a fighter pilot,

Screaming in a jet stream,

Does it settle for vermin

Or has it chosen a marsupial

With one in the bag.

In days gone by

Farmers would rail against raptors,

Unless they were hooded

And on the King's arm,

When they were autocrats

Not tinpots,

Dictators in jackboots

Post-modern Emperors

Imposing their will like an imperialist

Trading blood for hard currency

Shaping the narrative to suit their will

In the name of populism.

Such a narrow confinement

Between manmade contrivances

Overlapping houses

A sliver of real life

A slice of sky

Parting the space between one world

And the next.

How many times have I counted crows

Peering through my window

What do they know

Of trickle-down economics?

When it comes to survival

They work as a team

The Red Kite works alone

But then he is a raptor

And is a protected species,

As the loner is always at a disadvantage

In the fight to disavow

The rapture of extinction.