From a Rock Ridge
Above the heat the sky is flecked with ice,
high country has its own climate.
The sun is no longer burning,
it’s a ghost lamp swept by the rags
of a coat-tailing wind.
I'm on a high ledge watching.
There it is - arriving out of a far place,
a living cliché, a Bald Eagle
It must have caught a thermal,
I wonder does it see my significance
or insignificance
here alone with vastness above
and below?
The eagle veers away
turning deeper into the ice-blue.
We are both vanishing.
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