Winged warder of the night
hurry blind
into the light
where tiny sounds betray
elusive flying food.

Dive. Strike.
Roll the axis. Vere
again. Never touching
or colliding, rise jurist
of the dark.

Let the moth beware
her ancient nemesis come
to judge and sentence. Depose
small, unseen marauders in their flight.
Close debate with moral bite.

When the hawk first cries dawn,
speed into a dark, cool cave
where safety dwells in numbers,
where bonds can be proclaimed
and verdicts of the hunt exchanged.

Sleep then as day prepares another night.
Hang by fingered claws and dream
of soaring, swooping, striking,


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