What do you see in the falcon's eyes? This is no wandering heart, no listless gaze. Look how the wind batters its face, ruffling its body in flight. Apart from its will, it will not moved. The falcon remains, not swooping loose, not crying out empassioned calls, but steady, poised. There is purpose in those eyes. Purpose which flows through its wings and tail. Purpose brewed in the deep wells of its mind, fixing its eyes to search intently, and find.
Relenting, the rain left a midnight chill and a cloudless night from my windowsill where, telling a story both simple and vast the droplets and moon made stars on the glass.