Fiach

Against the kitchen window,

I glimpse a winged gloom, a shining

lock is beaking at my cheek, lashes

beat a dark feather in my eye, the drum

of flight -- surely it is nothing

Later, I hear the ragged bolt

of mirth, the guttering wick

in the bedroom window, the moss-choked

gullet groaning beneath a weighty

body, talons clacking a warning

song -- I know the call

I run toward those rare sounds

how the crack-bone language echoes off the empty air

as if it evolved in conversation with cliff walls

mimicking their tongue of reflection,

becoming the vanishing laughter

between the cracks

of a world

I finally recognise

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