Dave Bonta's "Peregrine" is only a few words long, and it works by showing one small, stark moment. The speaker has come upon a dead falcon, and the opening line, "a falcon just dead," gives us the news plainly. The word "just" matters: the death is fresh, and the speaker seems to be taking it in while it is still raw.
The second line turns to the rain, which is described as "raw as parted friends." That comparison links the weather to human loss. Rain and bird become part of the same feeling, a rawness that comes from separation. The line also reads oddly, with "it and the rain" grouped together, as if the dead bird and the weather are two companions who have now been pulled apart, or who share the same grief.
The mood is quiet, bare, and sorrowful. Nothing is explained or consoled. The speaker simply records the loss and lets the cold, wet image carry the emotion, leaving the reader to sit with it.