Mason Peterson
A bird of leaden wings rests
on a gloved hand
in a forest it should soar through.
Indignant, steadfast, and solid,
the refined gaze of the eagle’s watchful eye
now echoed in gears and spoons and washers and bolts and—
Cast metal bits of
cast-aside remnants of
a life so very human.
Cast birds do not take to the skies.
Gone are the rich colors,
the soft feathers,
the graceful fluttering wings
of the proud bird that once
made its home in the trees.
In its place, an echo.
A collage of garbage
tenderly guided into a
shape of its own.
–After Leah Jeffery’s “Eagle”
CLAMOR 