Eagle Poem

The Eagle soared upwards.
Wind flew past his outspread wings.
Old feathers flapped a little
in the Mountain Air.

He swooped down, upon his nest,
and folded his wings relaxedly.
Then he went deeper in his rocky stronghold.

The Old Eagle perched there sadly.

Maybe it was in the way he carried himself,
or the flicker of something incomprehensible in his eye,
but that was the only thing that betrayed his fear.

Fear of Death.

He was old,
very old,
some say he was as old as the stars,
or as old as the mountains.

He was once king of the skies,
ruler of high outcrop
from the west coast to east coast.
But not for ever.

He coughed,
a sick, mournful cough.
Then a swallow turned its head.

"Alas, the king is dying!"
It smiled in comtempt,
"Liberty to swallows!
Down with you, Brute!"

THe Eagle stood up,
impassively.
But he could do little.
His beak was far from sharp,
His sight vague and blur.

With that, the swallow departed,
and another bird took his place.
It was the Eagle's son.

"What do you have to say now,
Father?"
It dripped with hate.

THe Eagle remained silent.
How had his son become so?

"Do not insult thy elder,
Be honorable to thy enemies,"
it said, mimicking its Father's voice.

"Who is thy enemy now, Father?"

The Eagle father sighed.
Had he only taught his son what was right?
What had he done wrong?

The Son retreated,
to another rock outcrop south of here.

The Eagle cried inwardly.
Agony ripped his soul
like a double-bladed knife.
To try so hard to raise
his son.
And fail.
Why?

The Eagle went backwards.
His mate swooped down proudly from the outcrop north of here.
"Here you are, Ostolrivarl.
Ex-mate."
Her voice cold as metal.

The Eagle bent its head a little.
The ex-mate continued,
"Remember the days, before I met Constofinarl?
When you would go hunting for me,
and come back with but a small sparrow in claw?
You were such a pathetic husband,
king-you-once-were."

A tear rolled down the Old Eagle's face.
"Do you not remember when I came back
with the finest soft hay from the east
to decorate your nest?
And the best cuts of meat I sacrificed for you during the famines?
Do you not remember?"

"My new husband gives me
the softest cotton from the south.
And the best slices of venison,
famine or no famine."
She flew off,
her feathers flecked gold in the evening sky.

The Old Eagle looked at last upon the wife he had loved,
remembered the swallow,
and his twisted son.
The happy days of life,
and the joys of his childhood.
Memories of youth,
Pride of Maturity.

Now, with bitter regret,
he stood up,
to the edge of his rock,
and with the last of his strength,
collapsed into the gorge below.

Death.