The Eagle

 
The day was like a poem—
 
clouds, fluffy and lyrical, the sun
blinked on and off like a strophe.

An eagle had nested, we’d heard,
in Mill Pond, about a mile from
our place on Walloon Lake.

Our kayak skimmed the water like a swan
about to fly.

Water lilies carpeted our way into the pond—
ash and oak witnessed our paddle strokes,
aspen trembled their greetings.

From the sky, she scudded wing-over, under a canopy
of care, constructed for her brown fledgling— 

a canopy invisible to us, but clear
            as sun-gleamed talons to her. 

The beasts below in their slim conveyance radiate
danger, malevolence, power. 

            Once they were nowhere,
            these invaders,
            now they are everywhere. 

Low over us her yellow beak shredded
the air we breathed. Her flight mapped

domains of opportunity and oblivion.

Our hearts pulsed in primitive rhythms—
a cadence of grace, awe, and fear
in this world we share.