The Falcon “In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare sieze the fire?” ---William Blake, The Tyger Falcon, falcon, flying high Over pines that scrape the sky, What ingenious deity Has framed your feathers, formed your flight? Who the head, and what the wings? How the graceful hoverings, The virtuoso circlings That bate my breath, amaze my sight? From pine to pine you glide with ease, Then soar above the tallest trees With widened wingspan in the breeze--- Dark silhouette in summer’s light. Where in the clouds’ vicinity Is he who gave such dignity To you, but left humanity Enslaved to gravity, in spite Of having crowned him king of bird And every beast? He gave his word That man would rule; is it absurd That on the sky’s scroll you would write With feathered pen, man’s question why God’s image can’t, like falcons, fly? Where is his unseen eagle-eye Who overrides this regal right? Why did your maker choose to fashion Mankind with such thwarted passion For your lofty flight’s elation: Aching, craving to unite With your unrestrained volition? By his purposed prohibition, We remain in adoration Far below your lordly height. Wounded fledglings, we are left Of flight’s facility bereft, Helpless by our human heft, Imprisoned in our grounded plight. Did he who made mankind, make you? And when he shall make all things new, Will the zenith of your view At last be our intense delight? Airborne falcon, drawing high Semicircles in the sky, What artistic Deity Has carved the pathway of your flight? Cynthia Erlandson is a poet and fitness professional living in Royal Oak, Michigan. She has had poems published in First Things, Modern Age, Measure Journal, Anglican Theological Review, The North American Anglican, Forward in Christ, and the Anthologies The Slumbering Host (ed. Clinton Collister), and A Widening Light, (ed. Luci Shaw).