the falcon's consolation

​

the day kept folding in on itself…
light thinning too soon,
as if the sun had simply decided
not to try.

snow came in quiet waves,
soft at first, then steadier,
and in the pause between flakes
you could feel more waiting.

in the cedar,
on a branch that swayed like a thought,
the falcon held his balance…
shoulders tucked,
feathers drawn tight against the cold,
eyes fixed and bright
as if they were made of winter too.

against his chest
he held a chickadee.
not slung like prey,
not saved for later,

but kept where warmth collects…
where the body speaks in heat
before it speaks in hunger.

the small bird trembled
until trembling became stillness:
a thimble of breath,
a heartbeat you could almost mistake
for wind.

the falcon’s grip was shelter
and sentence at once…
the way a fist can be a room
if it never opens.

he could have ended it.
he didn’t.

instead he listened
to that frantic, fragile rhythm

and let it answer
something inside him
the storm had been asking
all afternoon.

outside, snow stitched the distances closed…
needle and thread between branch and branch,
between sky and ground…
until the world felt smaller,
tighter,
as if it could fit
inside a single held breath.

so he kept her there:
borrowed warmth, stolen solace,
a bright softness pressed to bone,
proof…however ruthless…
that he was not only appetite.

and if it hurt,
it was because emptiness
was the larger predator,
and mercy
would mean loosening his claws
into all that white.

​

© Sreedhari Desai