Swift, on wings that beat without sound,
The body flies forward, devoid of direction,
Save to follow the sound,
The notion of another body in the darkness,
To seek it out, and draw from it
The breath, the life,
And lo, it hunts, on stealth wings,
Air currents never fettering it's progress,
As it glides unseen save by the nocturnal.
It's cry is different to each that hear it,
And yet to all it strikes a notion of mortality.
An enigma until the very last moment when it is seen.
Claws outstretched, reaching, grasping,
Covetous of the life it wishes to rent free,
To bring longevity to it's own.
Survival of the fittest, the fastest,
Neither play favorites.
And when they close upon warmth,
Seeking through flesh the blood and lifebeat,
Closing in tight.
And when it hits the ground in a thud,
Two bodies crashing at once
Under the force of one.
And when it takes off again, to the skies,
Through the night, and the trees,
We see a thing of beauty.