Near Canaveral the eagles’ nest
Was built years before the sycamore died.
They still return to it each year to rest,
To rebuild, to mate, to give birth, to guide
Their fledglings in the raptor’s arts of flight
And fishing on the wing — claws clutched tight
On a meal devoured in a single bite.
When the rockets go up and out of sight
Is their world momentarily destroyed
By shuddering air and splintering light,
Or are they only mildly annoyed?
It takes five years for eagles to mature.
Each abandons its parents first, unsure,
Alone, wary of rockets and the future.
My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
