Falcon Channel

It’s coming to you live: the high-rise ledge
That doubles as a desolate precipice
In a pinch. It’s all raw footage,

Cutting-edge surveillance, one tight shot
Trained on the cornice of a downtown complex
Handpicked for its head-spinning drop

And instant access to whistling updrafts.
Soap opera, talk-show catfight, floor of Congress,
Fleecing infomercial, play-off highlights,

And now this: heroic measures, last-gasp habitat,
A breeding pair banded and released
Atop a glass spire in the scudding firmament.

It carries no viewer-discretion notice,
So be advised: the content can be graphic,
Their taste for gore may give you gooseflesh,

And you may fairly quail at that ticked-off look
They always wear, no matter what,
Like the dapper heavies in a cult mob flick.

The winds that whip past their bitter parapet
Would make your eyes tear if you were there,
But this way, whenever you feel up to it,

You can surf the ether to the lip of their roost,
And snoop at will while they gorge and preen
As if you were a spirit or a hard-boiled spook.

It’s come to pass: things fall apart.
This makeshift bluff is their last best haunt.
It’s a breaking story, time is short,

It’s not for the squeamish or the faint of heart.
There may be a dull ache in your wrist
As you punch them up on your remote,

There may be moments when you wish
You could program the minicam to blink.
This just in: it’s come to this.