From plane of light to plane,
Wings dipping through geometries and orchids that the sunset builds,
Out of the peak's black angularity of shadow,
Riding the last tumultuous avalanche of
light above pines and the guttural gorge,
The FALCON comes.
His wing
Scythes down another day,
His motion is that of the honed steel-edge,
We hear the crashless fall of stalks of Time.

Robert Penn Warren