An Eagle Flew Above

If freedom is an eagle

Why must it circle so, around and around and around

Below, we trace the broad and shadowed wingspan

wondering

If we are the creature hunted, or, if

by following it with determined eye, we can maintain

A tenuous upper-hand -

Even so, caught in its hypnotic power.

Only prey feign ignorance and lower their heads

for a drink of dew or a mouthful of fresh berries,

(their prerogative of pleasure, i suppose,

in exchange for martyrdom.)

But not us, we lay down, our backs against the damp humus

And follow the prayer which is an eagle soaring in the high winds.

There is grace in a hunter, we notice, like a melody in a song -

How brutish and ugly we have been in our own pursuits.

There are far too many gruesome victors in our games

The clumsy hacking down of others.

Not enough flying above and surveying from a birds-eye view -

Not enough singing, even of silent songs.

Not enough detached sovereignty.

The eagle knows nothing of the dog-eat-dog tales we tell

In staggering variety and drama to each other

and ourselves. What does it know?

When to glide, and when to pierce

How much to take. How to satiate.

Breath, rhythm, instinct.

Featherlight and definition.

The gun lies there choked by grass and vine.

The eagle above us draws patterns in the sky

Magnificent yes, but also soothing. Much closer to peace

Than violence. Talons on both ends elegant as the scythes

and obsidian blades scattered in the earth by

Our own ancestors. All creatures take their places

In the intricate web of predator and prey. Their fight is not

against their lot. There is still life to be had.

We have wasted our ammunition and burned our excesses.

Flesh and blood without consummation.

All who’ve hunted encounter a fork in their journey

And once they’ve walked down one path there is no turning back.

the eagle circles above that spot

Watching them take their turns. Some things,

It turns out, are black and white -

The heads and the tails of it.

There is no possibility of deceit under

These large golden eyes.

Until we learn the eagle’s balance, micro adjustments in midair,

the fumbling continues on and destruction with it.

If we cannot practice refinement, at the very least

We can play small. After all,

we are so soon out of the nest. Fledglings

in the grand scheme of things. Sticks in the ant holes,

Uncoordinated and hungry, still yearning for wisdom.

If freedom is an eagle we watch perplexed,

Not quite predator and not quarry

Just learning our share, heads turned skywards wide eyed

Mountains as our witness, moss wrapped around us

soft fingers touching the soft green saplings.

An eagle flew above us and preyed.