The eagles have displaced the crows
on the power pole, singly claimed
the overlook of rising feed saved back

for weaning calves, to fall from,
flap and glide close to the ground
squirrel towns submerged in green.

Short skirmish, the eagle fell with one
black wing outstretched beyond
its taloned grasp deep into the grass.

I think I understand wild politics,
its guiltless traits, its territories
and borders, our totems changing.

How humbled were we when
the golden birds chose us
to entertain at dawn and dusk,

but beak and claw I never saw,
just two sets of wings lifting off
in opposite directions. High

at the head of Ragle Canyon
in the granite outcrop, she waits
to be relieved to feed herself.


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