That she made shapes in air
That she saw the world as pattern and light
moorland to bare mountain drawn by instinct
That she’d arrive at the corner of your eye
like the ghost of herself going silent into the wind
That the music of her slipstream was a dark flow
whisper-drone tagged to wingtips
That weather was a kind of rapture
That her only dream was of flight forgotten
moment by moment as she dreamed it
That her low drift over heather quartering home ground
might bring anyone to tears
That she would open her prey in all innocence
there being nothing of anger or sorrow in it
That her beauty was prefigured
That her skydance went for nothing
hanging fire on empty air
That her name is meaningless
your mouth empty of it mind empty of it
That the gunshot was another sound amid birdcall
a judder if you had seen it her line of flight broken
That she went miles before she bled out
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