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The Catskill Eagle
by Michael Ferris
The Catskill eagle rises like a flame;
he soars the thermals up into the Sun.
Beneath him lies creation, meek and tame;
above him only God — if anyone.
His will is talon; bluestone is his blood.
And though a speck against the frameless sky
he flies at it, he rails at finitude —
the fleck of fire in Herman Melville’s eye.
And when he dives those gorges deep as night,
and daylight flickers out, and shadows wane,
however dark and desolate his flight,
he’s higher than the birds down on the plain.
Where rage and wonder battle, cruel and strange:
there, the Catskill eagle finds his range.
Michael Ferris’s first true love was J. S. Bach. He has since had reckless affairs with Blaise Pascal, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost. He studied nothing of commercial value in college. He splits his time between Manhattan, where he renders unto Caesar, and Kingston, NY, where he confabulates with the hedgehogs and hummingbirds. He is grateful to have fallen on receptive ears recently at The Lyric, The Shit Creek Review, and Light Quarterly.
© 2010 named authors | Page last modified 23 August 2011