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.