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SKY VOID
He calls above the snow-lashed peaks
That yearn and twist to scrape the sky
Their frozen bones like gaping beaks
That voice an echo in reply
The tongues of ice have made their own
A ridge that none but eagles claimed
His aerie now with frost is sewn
With icy lacquer bound and maimed
And so he wheels, prince of storms
To usher in the dying light
The snows first needles ‘round him borne
To dust his shadow’s lonely flight
His skeleton, with caverns wrought
To shed his weight and soar aloft,
Now sound their depths with smoldered thought
Of chicks and warmth and feathers soft
Indifferent, the fire falls
And cloudy mantle wreaths its set
While night-cowled shape, beneath the squall,
Skims silent earth in silhouette
He cannot hear, through rushing air,
The cries of young that saw no spring
But onward flaps as day grows bare
Though with each beat their screeches ring
In guarded vault he holds the noise
For eagles are not made to speak
And so he soars with ancient poise
And calls above the snow-lashed peaks
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