Danny Rosen
Twenty Miles North of Baggs


Twenty miles north of Baggs, Wyoming,
we pulled the truck off the highway by
a wounded eagle hobbling in the borrow pit.
The animal woman cornered it by the fence,
threw the blanket, told me,
"The talons, watch the talons."
Wrapping her arms around the blanket she
worked underneath,
and held the eagle by the legs.
I helped her into the passenger seat when
the blanket slipped:
My eye three inches from eagle eye.
Black pupil on gold iris with black specks.
I lost balance looking into such definition,
depth of field, clarity.
Such sense of purpose.
Such cold flatness
flying over this warm round planet spying,
crying, listening to a distant heartbeat,
fearing not the breath of death
that is everywhere.
I fell down,
forgot my name,
the truck was gone,
my hands were bleeding,
and still, there was the eye.
I looked into the sky, the clouds,
the gathering darkness,
the distance back down,
I was far from the ground where
I noticed shadowy movements
darting in the sage.
The wind picked up as I settled in
with a growing hunger.
At last I knew death.
At last I was ready for life.