There were a fair number of Harrier Hawks eating the first roadkill of Spring as we travelled last week, so a short poem.
The link is to an analysis of it.
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1852