Here’s a photo from last year, and a poem I wrote as I meditated on the picture.
How could you
not love the wingprints
of eagles
in the snowy field
beyond your barn
as they descend to catch
a morning
meal of meadow
vole
in sharp talons
made
for two things
only;
gripping the branch
and snatching
the prey
from its short-sighted
life?
