Singed Eagle

I woke up to
a singed eagle
perched on a limb 
outside my window,

could smell burned feathers
through the glass as if
the bird was still smoldering.
It did not call out or move

once in all the time
I was watching it, but disappeared
silently once I turned attention
to the daily routine;

the smell lingered, clung
to anything it had touched,
so that we could not move
without being reminded of fire.

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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