On a sunny day besides a tree, under its shadow,
what could be more spectacular than pondering,
facing the hills, listening to a distant sound,
singular, of barely noticeable buses on far roads.
From so far, the roads were just a hair thick,
and from below the hill slope a falcon would rise,
making circles in air, like a spring expanding upwards,
and then others falcons would follow.
Funnily crows tried to imitate them, always failing,
to reach the soaring heights, from where the falcons would spot a rodent,
dive with precision, and in a matter of few seconds,
have their prey, completing the cycle of life.
The summer has not yet arrived, and the tree would be cut.
Would there be any falcons that I may see again?
I wish I could go now, the home is far away,
I wish I could go now, the home is far away.