They razed the trees around the eagle’s nest
leaving only the lone one standing, its tri-form trunk
arrowed into the clouds. I’m wondering who once lived
in the fallen limbs. Sometimes I see the father
dive-bombing for mice. And in earlier spring, a hint
the mother’s white neck hanging over the edge
of her warm nest. Each year, after the hatching,
the baby waffles behind, a black speck in the sky
trying to find a stream of air to lift him
over the summer’s thickness. A redwing butts its head
against my window’s glass attacking a competitor—
its own reflection; a cacophony of birds chitters mating songs.
I could get headphones to cancel the noise,
but only so much ignorance I can handle.
How to keep the brain still as an egg in a dark nest
when it’s frothing like a horse at the starting gate
lured by the joy of soaring, like that baby bird,
threading its flight through the thinning air.