Aerie, a two-ton nest. Adolescent pines
snapped to kindle the crotch of a greater tree's looming
a fledgling iced
and powdered shore. Destination
is warren and hunt—the quivering kit, the river's silver
quickening; destiny the ginned field
unfurling bolt run to stop. The shadow
to that forked holding: three gray hooks, all fuzz
and wide eyes and eager bobbing
necks craned toward a sky steeling
to Mother above them: that great beak,
all it brings down.
Copyright © 2013 by Sandra Meek. Used with permission of the author.