A tentative first flight
With soft, newly grown wings.
Uncertainty and wariness
Replaced by joy and happiness.
An arrow strikes the newly-fledged
A blow to the heart
And the flight is crashed into the thorns.
Now the Hawkbird sits, in the aerie
Wound showing no sign of health or hurt
Just there.
Patience warring with hunter's instinct
Wrath, anger, coldsteel of the soul
Hope soars for the healing
Fear clutches at the wound
As the bird keens for the knowledge
Of the path to the skies.
Yet time can only tell
As the raptor sits, caged and bound.
Waiting.

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Aeguary, in the year 288 AF.