Most conspicuous soarer of Georgia skies
floats for eons circling till I grit my teeth
in expectancy and finally he, snagging

a hot air lift, shoots up straight, ascending
like Jesus, wings stiff with ecstasy,
blood stained beak thrown open to sing

hosannas, but not for my ears. Then more
eons and satiated or fearful of God-light or
despairing still of Paradise lost, a minute

wing-tip-dip spirals him in delirium down
to vanish behind pine’s dark façade;
shade veiled refuge for his grotesquerie.