From a Diary of the Plague Year (3)

Planting yarrow on a hillside--
glimpsed a lone eagle just overhead.
It locked its wings to an updraft,
parked, scanned. I saw its
head tilt toward me. And the eyes.

I won't say I felt hunted. I will
say I stood up and tried to convey
maximum respect. The bright
white of the bird's head flashed
like snow on the Olympic Range,
also visible today--its sharp
peaks bunched together like a
stone chorus. The eagle

coasted in circles--stiff wind
not more than an obedient
servant. Rotating its body
and wings, it was off to complete
rounds, diagnosing the ground.

Predatory, pristine, supreme,
remote, austere: eagle,
above our clotted fretting
down here.


hans ostrom 2020