The river flows below
This granite face of stone,
That has endured
The passing tides of time.
A stone visage worn cold
From the rain and sleeting snow.
Hewed into silent beauty
That stares into the open canyon,
Carved from the fleshy body
Of the universe, given to us all.
High above this canyon wall,
Hovering on the warm thermal winds,
A dark shadow circles
In quiet solitude,
Soaring on blunted pinions
Of golden thread;
(king of flight…lion of the upper air)
An eagle hovers in quiet beauty,
Staring down upon his wanton world.
This bird of prey, beak of iron,
Talons of death, strikes down;
Crushing head, breaking bone,
Until blood drips from its talons;
Strike down, strike down…
And I watch as golden turns to gray
And know the subtle beauty of