Pursuit

Pursuit

Flanked by magpies, three eagles ride a belly of 

late winter air, dripping watery trills like chimes

chased or by choice we cannot tell

they are heading toward the mountains

as flute practice begins and the dog sings along

howling, whining

out of pain or joy we cannot tell

and I wonder if this

is all there is

I mean, what if hearts were made exactly for this

shaped by wing sweep and sky

in pursuit of rocks and scales, keeping time

and also for keening 

for open laments, raw and broken 

undone by the idea 

of keeping anything.