by Dee Allen
Dusk hides nothing
From the Night Eagle, himself hidden in the trees,
With feathers & wings of sandy hue,
Bulbous eyes black as his native grove.
Watches the wildness
In deep darkness,
Observes change in weather & seasons
From the hollows of oaks,
Broad branches of redwoods,
Not a thing escapes his careful,
Penetrating gaze under the stars.
Red men claim the Night Eagle is
The spirit of one of their departed,
Brought back to Earth in avian form,
Protective, insightful, wiser than he was in life—
He gives a sharp chorus of hoots,
Spreads his wings and flies after intruders
On the ground, chasing those field
Rats back to holes within nightly abyss
Before the slow coming of dawn—
The Night Eagle,
Watcher of the woods, wings of sandy hue, black eyes,
Is my spirit animal
On an iPad
On a table
Under a tent
A pretty blonde
Park Ranger directed me to
During the Stand For The Redwoods
Festival, Yerba Buena Gardens, S.F.—
By the touch of my index finger on screen,
Then slowed in pace.
Yellow: Northern Spotted Owl.
I don’t believe in this spirit animal nonsense at all.
But the traits the Night Eagle has—
Vigilance, insight, wisdom—lie in me nonetheless.