Used Equipment

Here is the poem

The Facts About Hunting Birds

At two hundred and ninety miles per hour
the peregrine falcon nails breakfast
before we have time to blink.
At six hundred feet per secon
a bead of brass flicks a dove
out of the evening sky.
They are the only creatures
who shut their eyes approaching death.

We stood in a field swollen with sunflowers.
I held the bird barely in my hand, still
breathing as I pulled my blade across its neck.
The eyes closed with what appeared a sadness.
I saw your startled flinch
briefly close over my face.
Then I understood there was no gauge
or measure of love’s velocity for you, my son
whose quiet, gentle strenght the day
had suddenly swooped down upon.