Eagles

The eagles can never know the mystery of the volcanoes, which appear to soar across snow-capped mountain peaks while the embers of their rage burn fiercely within the ruins of history. The eagles are baffled as to why the scream can be an echo, the echo can be a scream, and the green still suckles the teats of the spring. But the eagles are hearing the sound of brooklet ripples falling with a murmur, and the cubic rocks rolling for singing. The eagles are able to see The meandering path through the forest, reminiscent of a hanging wall, teeters on the sloping edge like a surreal rock climbing tale. Poem by Marieta Maglas