Danny Rosen
Twenty miles north of Baggs, Wyoming
we pulled the truck off the highway.
A wounded eagle hobbled 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 away, away from that eye
into the sky, the clouds, the gathering
darkness, the distance back down.
Shadowy movements darted in the sage.
The wind picked up and I settled in
with a growing hunger.

 That Curve Danny’s recent release.