BALD EAGLE

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Once high above the fields of mice,

I eluded the mob-minded with

feet of clay, running. I tormented the

 

weak with unspoken strength, spirited

away in flight over salmon-rich streams.

Now, I touch a fallen feather,

 

Asking: “Who would graft

this seamless skin where I remember wings?

Who would kill the patriarch?”

 

Alice Parris

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