Eagles


On the way to check the calvey cows we see
too bald eagles,
pompous and regal,
squat next to the stock tank—
too bloated on roadkill
to care that the nearest tree
is ten miles away,
and the closest
cliff
farther than that.

Middle-aged,
they no longer
give a damn.

Let those young punk,
smart ass,
golden ones,
soar and strut,
keep up the national
identity,
fight for right,
symbolize prosperity,
integrity,
defeat oppression.

Thanks, but no thanks.

These two just perch
squalid in spring mud
stretching wings and belching carrion,
anticipating the occasional
sloughed calf,
baby lamb,
antelope,
hitting the buffet line.

Not to worry,
good things and fresh meat do come
to those who

…wait.