Made For Storms

The storm’s approach
The eagle sees.
He waits for it
Atop the trees.

The meadow runs.
Retreats in fear.
The wily fox,
The white-tail deer.

And skies grow black.
And crack with light.
And wind careens,
As day turns night.

The smell of rain
And topsoil stirred
Are ancient clues
To this great bird.

That soon will come
An upward rush.
His pinions locked.
A mighty push.

To launch the prince
Of loftier skies
Above the storm.
Or else he dies.

While far below
In gopher towns,
In flash-flood’s flow,
A partridge drowns.

(Painting by Robert Bateman)

(See also our earlier post entitled Grounded Eagle)


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