The killing dying time; nigh high Winter;
Eagles and carrion crew wheel and skirl* the clean cold air;
And send squirrels below their usual high-branch roads;
And snakes and smaller prey find their basks in better camouflage;
Ten- and Twenty-Degree coasters roll across this Sandspit land;
The old and infirm die both well and hard and go to feed a new band;
The seasons learn their craft and flux and pitch and yaw with secret grace;
And surprise each and all whose memory counsels but a yester-minute;
This, too, is no surprise and in that lofty goal one recalls that none here knows
What One Trillion Days hath wrought in delightful dance since first we guessed
An amoeba’s ancestor just crawled out from its early soup and said: What? This?
Didn’t that happen last Planet? I Wanna see my agent right goddamn now!
*(When you are privileged to listen to an American Bald Eagle call its mate as it flys from its shopping trip homeward to the waiting maws of mom-and-dad’s fine new brood, the Scottish bagpipe sound “skirling” through the air takes on a new meaning. No, not exactly a human song: but the notes and riffs of an Eagle’s call lifts and crashes against the universe in so similar a vein. And thus, I have expropriated a musical moment to this ancestral thief and scavenger so highly placed by flightless themselves humans.)