Does it imagine? Does it dream, or feel?
It dreamed it was a falcon; it did not
return to its perch. It snapped the tethering line.
Its once-bound eczemantic ankle healed.
Unhooded, it could not remember what
it had been when waking. Banking now, it climbs
the upward-drafting, dessicated air.
The falconer grows smaller, disappears.
The late sun is huge. The Hindu Kush
grow a long beard of shadow. A dark pair
of murine eyes gauges its passing. Here
and there small bands of village farmers push
their lowing beasts and plows without a word,
and do not fear, nor note, the spiraling bird.

The Man Who Was IOZ’s poetry is sometimes on the gnomic side. This once, just to nudge folks in the right direction, is riffing on “turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer” and is tagged drones. Shaln’t say more: overexplaining a thing is perilous.