Bird watching

I pass him every morning, and one day finally stopped to LOOK at him. I found his perfection moving, and at the same time was disturbed by these thoughts:

Wings raised

Wings raised, the noble predator
will never know release
(unless some cataclism come,
to set free every beast.)

Untried, the females of his kind,
no nest was ever his.
He guards a garden and a house,
for him, that’s all there is.

I wonder if he chafes within.
Can iron have a heart?
It’s my suspicion that he does.

How cruel of Vulcan’s art
to freeze him there on someone’s fence
before he could depart!

His bride

WARNING! Sensitive content. This poem may offend some people. Three times in the past week I’ve seen a nun in an all white habit walking along the same path I take in the morning. The question in the first line came up because you really don’t see many nuns in habits walking on the street anymore, not even here in Barcelona. And after that, thinking that in these hard times, she’s not so badly off.

His Bride

I'd like to know her order's name, that nun all dressed in white, and test the comfort of the bed where she spends every night.

She's married with her sisters to a single deity! I wonder how it works at night? First you, and then it's me?

I wonder how her marriage fares, is she still attracted to her lord? Or did she choose the convent life just for the room and board?