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 and rotten leaves and hunger's pain

are all forgotten in exploding light

and twisting talons of their wedding flight.