SCRAPS

The hunt, for both, was empty

as the light blue sky . . .

the solitary gull and the eagle, at day’s end,

find what little remains

from the ice fisherman’s bucket;

the gull landing first.

For an awkward moment they stand apart;

nervous, the gull steps forward, nips a tidbit . . .

and flies off.

Like a flightless bird, the eagle shuffles the few feet

to its meager fare, pulls a bite from the ice,

and then . . . very slowly . . . gathers itself

and rises up into the sky grown pale,

great wings circling

toward a tall, familiar pine . . .

the great bird once more.

Enough to reduce, yet not dispel,

a ripe awareness

that neither gull nor eagle,

even in the dead of winter –

can well do the vulture’s work.