The slick span of the eagle’s wings
Sliced through the light in a stark
Contrast of darkness and sky.

He soared in the curve of a scythe
Between peaks of piqued sunrays,
Sliding on the expanding planes of
Shadow with the horizontal angling
Of the sinking day.

And, below the jagged cut of the eagle’s flight,
The butterfly’s wings fluttered with indignation
And solemn, silent purpose.
With a hushed whoosh of infinitesimal wind,
The confirmation of purpose is sealed and
Eternally denied. And disbelievers cannot hear
The soft rustling roar of the tumults of
Small gusts meshing into thunderstorms.

And in the dark quake, the leathery beat
Of the bat flaps unevenly, writing whispered
Pictographs with scratched out eyes and
Skritchy auras.

The butterfly of infinite power,
The bat of errored time—
All beneath the sickle beat
Of an eagle’s wing.