We were never aware
of how to subsist without water,
even salt codifies this weakness – morning,
it is the sunrise but I sleep on;
slumber near to buses
carrying the tawdry to strawlike nests
The Golden Eagle nests
for many years at a time –
not sleeping but preparing
for the cold sharp shock it knows is coming.
Golden Eagles think that death is like a wind
which can be avoided by building
big enough homes behind rocks that
hide all gales forces. A wolf
eaten up by twelve big birds
screaming; did they operate without a qualm
or more as I suspect they must have –
aware somewhere of what was happening
and that what was happening felt like sinning.
Eleven spread carcasses of Golden Eagles –
one victor like Achilles stalking
through rutted, bloody land.
Still unaware of death by nature, but
somewhere something other glimmering.
In that moment before fate arrived hidden
under the wings of a beautiful twelfth eagle
equipped for fighting, winning –
how must that kingly wolf have felt
surrounded by the feathered dead?
Perhaps one brief ninety second rapture
unlike anything ever felt before –
pure survival, rippling muscle,
the most alive he could remember.