There is an eagle,

a white sea eagle.

He glides above the water

like a child’s kite on a windy day,

inborn binoculars

watching, waiting for movement.

Sea eagles do not gorge

on young hares

or on antelopes’ calves

or on pheasants beneath glass domes.

-

There is a serpent,

a banded sea serpent.

He undulates over stone

like scribbling on a chalkboard.

Today he hunts rarer prey

than mackerel

and young turtles.

Today he seeks nesting chicks

on flat cliffs

where sea eagles rest.

-

Binoculars catch a flash

of crayon-squiggled

green and red and blue,

and the white drops, black pincers

striking and pinning.

Blood flows.

Limp prey is carried back,

commonplace as grocery bags.

-

The nest is forlorn,

empty dish of weed and driftwood.

The eagle, white sea eagle shrieks;

though he will eat

his fill today,

the serpent has also been sated.