York Minster. Dawn.

A sky blanching at the edges.
Pale stone and creeping shadows.

Crouched in a wind worn crevice
high above, a kestrel
turns her hooked head, hears
the clap of pigeon wings,
and flings over the edge,
steel grey and copper, stooped
from some old bestiary,

beak and talons reaching out for blood.

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