Andreas
Gripp, CA
A bald eagle,
perched in the pine,
staring down at us below.
We are unwelcome visitors,
disturbing the bush and brush.
Bald? No, white, like the mountain tops,
a crown of kingly feathers.*
My garden
blossoms by its roots,
the spray of water they absorb.
Keeping green each leaf and stem,
I rarely see them, these veins:
Below the ground, the earth
an unlit heart to which they reach.*
