In the cry of an eagle
I hear silence. 
I hear the distant drumming
of thunder, and rain
on frantic wings. 
He flies in circles. 
He squeals of danger. 
The scavenger child
has become an invader,
beating waxen shadow wings
against the sun. 


I cried to the eagle
"Why must you
fly in circles? 
Why don't you
sing a tune?"


He replied:
"The sand is shifting
beneath your feet
and a great circle
is enclosing you.
Your life is circles. 
Your world
is folding back
upon itself
and sliding
into the sun. 
What is there to do
but fly in circles?  
Who can sing tunes 
in times like these?"

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