THE SEEDS OF EAGLES           

         By Dan McCarron            
         copyright 1996

     From on high the sandstone crag she perched,
     Her figure lean and brown.
     Her lifelong mate beside her
     Equally deserving of a crown.

     She was older than her mate,                                    
     Fifteen winters she had seen;
     Her figure was immaculate
     And her mind superbly keen.

     He was as equally formed      
     Though smaller, just as bold
     For there is no place for weakness
     In the winter wasteland cold.

     As morning grew they roused and stretched,
     He turned and preened.
     He could see the frost on his lady's back
     As it sparkled and gleamed.

     Where should we travel today they thought,
     As they sat upon the icy block.
     Historically they had hunted      
     From Pine Butte to Camel Rock.

     The day was new, the sun was bright,
     The snow-iced prairie glowing.
     They could not see a sign of life,
     Just feel the cold wind blowing.

     It was the male that ascended first,
     His flight strong and wings so purely sprawled,
     Ringing, ringing, ringing high
     As if God Himself had called.

     He looked at her with telepathic eyes
     His vision a piercing stare.
     She glanced at him and roused once more,
     As steam trickled out her nares.

     He stooped above her lovely form
     With content she glared at him.
     Will you come and join me, love,
     Let us float above the rim.

     Her sails unfolded, she left the rock,
     Again she rose once more.
     Lifting up until she too
     Was headed for heaven's door.

     Over Cooper's Rim they soared
     Onto the frozen southern plains.
     Hunting as they road the wind
     Feeling life's hunger pangs.

     Their bond was strong, their purpose one,
     Nature's way is formed with care.
     They say a golden eagle is not an eagle
     Unless it is a pair.

     Together they flew with a sharp set watch,
     Over a partly new domain they swept.
     For in the dead of winter
     Their home was not as neatly kept.

     He put in on an old pole
     Along a forgotten road.
     She in turn watched from above
     For this was their hunting code.

     He sat upon the weathered wood
     With his surveying eye.
     She stayed above her watchful mate,
     Scanning from on high.

     With folded wings she dropped to earth,
     A thousand yards away.
     Her body language told him
     She had her mind on prey.

     She melted down behind a hill
     Along a broken fence row.
     By the time he had followed,
     A vixen's blood had stained the snow.

     Today the pair would eat and live.
     God's vision is His own.
     For in this winter wasteland
     The seeds of eagles are sown.

     
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 Dan McCarron:  mccarron@rock.sw1.k12.wy.us