The first thing I noticed about the golden eagle
perched in our dead acacia tree was its shadow
falling over mine like a pall. The second was
the cactus wren, still alive in its right claw,
eyes bright with resignation. I didn’t care
that this is nature, in cruel and glorious
tableau. I screamed and ran inside.
When I looked out the window seconds later
the wren’s wing had fallen open like a dropped
shawl, her eyes finished with the metaphor
of vigilance as she was consumed
by her own bad luck and later,
this poem.
