Tell

 

Tell
how you found an eagle feather that summer
in a midden near Atlin,
that old mining town by a pristine lake
in northern British Columbia.

Tell
how ravens and eagles attend this midden,
engaged in constant sifting
of humans' cast off fish-bones,
half-eaten meals in paper boxes,
leftovers and waste:
all the used up, unwanted things
piled up over years or centuries.

Still
Raven finds treasures there;
Eagle scans the detritus for mice,
ruffles his feathers,
grooms himself calmly
for the climbing, diving strike.

A downy feather,
plucked by his own beak
from his ruffled breast,
drifts to earth.

We scavenger humans
poke also among the rubbish:
a small clear glass bottle
a broken toy
a camp chair
a single grey-white feather...

Tell
how, the day you left Atlin,
that young eagle found you,
flew across the road in front of your car,
turned and paced you at eye level
before veering and rising aloft,
saying:

Travel swiftly with my vision feather!
be worthy of my gift,
take it with you in the wide world,
keep it close to your heart
that it too might soar and dive
in memory of me,
circling the midden-heap of mankind,
hunting the warm flesh of small furry animals
whose bead-black eyes glisten like the night sky.

Bear witness!
it is a light enough load.

Bare your soul!
that bright companion
whom the eagle, your spirit,
calls.

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