Eagles’ Ilk

The clouds gusted,


Mountains thrust

Their shadows

Upon the wheat

Fields below.

Rippling gold,

Waving silk,

Beckons bold

Eagles’ ilk

To swoop low

And touch rows

Chilled, alone,

Mouse rushes

To be gone,

Barbs, brushes

Eagle missed,

Soaring on.

© CGT, 2017.

Too much dark writing today. Here’s something breezier.

Talk to me.