A LONE FALCON ABOVE THE BUDDHA HALL AT UNIVERSAL-PURITY MONASTERY

I just rented a place that looks out over the monastery’s Buddha Hall,

and all that gold and emerald bathes my tumbledown house in light.

Gazing up over the rooftops, I watch a flock of pigeons nesting, busy

fussing and feeding their young, no idea how far gone the year is.

Their shit’s everywhere, all over the carved eaves and painted walls,

even splattered across clay heads and shoulders of sacred Buddhas,

but monks don’t dare take crossbows out and start picking them off.

Suddenly, an ash-dark falcon drifts over, flaunting ruthless claws,

crows crying out, magpies shrieking, mynahs cackling. Pure passion,

the falcon wheels around, then catching a glimpse of fragrant meat,

plunges headlong and cold-blooded, outnumbered but wildly fearless,

and in a flash it’s shattered a braincase, terrifying the whole flock.

The dead bird tumbles through air, but it never reaches the ground:

in a flurry of wings and feathers, the falcon whirls down to snag it,

then settles on rooftop Buddha heights, rips and tears at it with gusto,

gulps down hunks of meat, slashes the liver, scatters intestines away.

Tired old vultures, skulking and cruel and without the hunter’s skill,

circle overhead waiting for their chance, hungry eyes glaring down.

When the glutted falcon finally lifts away into flight, they cower back,

then scuttle down into a frenzy, no telling vultures and ravens apart.

A crowd of kids gathers to gawk and point. People in the street laugh.

And I keep chanting whatever comes to mind beside an autumn river.