The Eagles

a dying sun spills blood red rays
on stone faced clouds
that stand above, looking.
will he ever know who took him?

Rest your thoughts a while
on the wings of the eagles flying high,
in peace,
unwavering but still in motion.
Dark winged angels,
roll and wrap themselves in the dust
and dirt we throw up.
They are messengers of the Saviour.
They come not to teach
(but you may learn if you so wish)
the wisdom of the eagles rests on those dark wings.

Beat the air
stir and pinch it
disturb it
scatter the silence
into a thousand shimmering pieces
but only for a moment.

Do it
like the many mundane chores
that help you be a being.

A few moments lost
helps one to find and enter the eternal Flow.
It helps them soar..
round and round
in a circle of brown
higher than the mind can go.