White Eagle

White Eagle On my walk, I saw a big, white eagle with an enormous wingspan, flying low and in circles as it was looking for Something in the bush landscape. It the steadfast the gaze of a seraph that had to judge angst ridden souls which claimed the meant no harm when they had sinned, it had been with humour and fairness. It flew higher and in wider circles till it disappeared and blended in with the afternoon sky. Back home I told Ernesto I had seen a white eagle, he had never seen one, though it was a pity I didn`t have a rifle to shoot it, His Maria, was more severe, said I had seen an angel, crossed herself, wore a shawl over a greying hair and Went to mass. Ernesto and I went to the bar; he told regulars I had seen an angel; they kidded me greatly At home, in the night, sitting by the fire – spring evening can be chilly- where I live, seeing the flapping fire wings of burning aromatic olive wood, I said to myself; wouldn’t be nice if Maria was right?