Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

Yesterday the eagles screamed their lust.
There's no mistaking it. Their mating cry
is like none other. The small male trusts
his hulking feathered bride to balance his spry
motions on her back. Orgasmic joy
shatters the sullen chill. Afterwards
he sits a little taller, she looks coy,
shoulders touch, yellow eyes turn seawards
waiting for the fish. Starvation time.
Above the dirty snow, in endless rain
the eagles mate in hope. The winter's grime
wracked beach, rotten leaves, hunger's pain—
all forgotten in exploding light
and twisting talons of their wedding flight.