Peregrine Falcons Of Stone Mountain

Wherever the edge was 
a decade ago, a year ago?
It’s just ahead, almost
underfoot now. 

I was born for the edge
of the edge, to hang my toes
over the great fall
to the bottom, and look down.

My friends say it’s dangerous
to be here. They are afraid
I’m still who I was a decade ago,
a year ago. No fear that I’ll jump;

they just know how much I love
the edge of the edge. Love the stage
it provides. To tumble in the last act
would be just my way, they think,

but I’m not the being
they think I am, not even the one I was
a year ago, a decade ago. I know 
if I fall into that, I’ll just float

and no one, not even my friends,
is ready to see me hovering like
the peregrine falcons on Stone Mountain
updrafts, not plunging to earth.

I know who I am now. I don’t
stumble over the edges where I find myself.
I sit there in mid air high above disasters
and catastrophe. Maybe someday. Not today,

not a decade, not a year hence.
I’m not done with the earth yet.
I’m not ready yet to fall, to fail. 
I’m too light to know how close death is.