Observing a Cliche From a Rocky Promontory

Above the heat the sky is cooling, it’s blue is flecked with ice, its ghost-written lamp swept by the upended rags of a coat-tailing winds It is a fact that standing on a high ledge sky-watching the distance is quintessentially majestic whether you are a Hitler or a Gandhi it is its own poetry, I would strike a heroic pose, but assume no one else is watching. There it is - arriving out of a far place, a living cliché. The Bald Eagle is high for a natural born scavenger, soaring above this place where no rabbit runs to hide. It must have caught a thermal, let the sky fly it up here. This whole scene is symbolic. I look behind me, still no one else here. It comes nearer, I think of all the jaded medallions it has been stamped and embossed upon, yet here it is just an existential exclamation point in time, as I am. For a moment I am clothed in a noble grandeur then in a bitter blink splattered by a smearing of unspeakable crimes. The eagle veers away turning deeper into the ice-blue perhaps it was alarmed or dismayed by this self-regarding figure posturing for posterity upon a highly shaky prospect?