A Bald Eagle Broods
The last time I was there
There was snow on the ground.
Ground into my talons, meat....
Meet near the snag growing in rock--
Rock in our nest then rise up,
Up from the curve of stone and stick.
Stick plucked feathers there as a mark--
Mark the warm spot where once an egg.
Egg shells scatter with flash of wing!
Wing where great birds soar and dive--
Dive for prey and thrive on power.
Power flight with flesh and sun--
Sun glosses feathers sifting dry air.
Air beckons higher, farther sight--
Sight from above the snag near the rock.
Rock to one side and bid me farewell.
MLydiaM ~ February 2011
This poem is my ticket for a ride on The Poetry Bus. Driving the bus this week is the author of 120socks, who gave three prompts from which to select.
I chose #2 - The last time I was there...........
(The Poetry Bus is the brainchild of TotalFeckinEejit, bless 'im!)
Image of bald eagle via public-domain-image.com
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