The shriek of the eagle splits the silence of the plains in two. Hovering & then swooping. Massive wings painted and enormous against the slate, blue sky. He inches closer; talons piercing still waters. His prey dangling & convulsing – he glides into the horizon with a satisfaction poets and prophets can well imagine.
This. On such a peaceful September morn.
My eyes are captured by the stark beauty of a field of gold. As I meditate in the stillness of it all, I hear the drums. I hear the rumbling of the earth. Warriors. Bound by an ancient creed. A creed that has stood the test of time amidst all oppression. Surviving genocide. They ride.
I look out on my valley. My Illinois. I think of my water. My innocent son. My golden boy. Oh, but they’re coming from all directions. Stifling the oppressive, toxic projections.
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