Twenty Miles North of Baggs

DANNY ROSEN

Twenty miles north of Baggs, Wyoming 
we pulled the truck off the highway by 
a wounded eagle hobbling 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. 

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