Peregrine Falcon

The peregrine. Soaring comes to mind, but he’s not soaring. He’s cutting, floating, drifting, repositioning himself in the air, making minute changes to wing attack angle, lifting them up to come to a stopping land. His eyes see you. You don’t know if they understand or not, but you know he can see you, can make at least small judgments about you. His yellow feet sit flat, grasping awkwardly the cement he chose to land on. His wings are tucked behind him and his tail feathers stick out, shifting directions like a large arrow pointing different ways behind him. He makes these strange hopping movements, picking one foot up and moving it, then doing the same with the other. This reminds you of how a chicken walks. His neck feathers are a pure white; the underbelly is spotted but his top feathers are a darkish gray. He knows what he’s doing and what his element is. He’s calculating, just, you know, lookin around.