Watching the eagles' nest is slow work,

It is, for the most, a static scene. The action

When it comes, tends to be brief,—

Dropping from the nest like a rock,

Falling clear of the branches, the wings

Outstretching, and the slow-motion, 

Almost waving, movement which carries

Her, or him, higher, until they are 

Clear of the topmost branches, clear

Of all the treetops,—the circling begins,

And the crazy croaking, cawing sound,

Guttural and unexpected, calling in

The other, that comes in from nowhere,—

The two circling upwards, finding 

A thermal, circling the nest, now 

From a distance,—and then, somehow,

Formulate a plan,—one leaves to hunt,

The other circles lower, circles the nest,

Approaches upwind like a Cessna, landing,

Gracefully, but not silently, on a branch

Within sight of the nest, or the nest itself,—

Then, it's over, nothing more to see,

For eagles will sit still as stone for an hour, 

For longer than an hour, how long

I can’t say,—an hour pushes my limit

Before I have to rise and stretch and circle,

With backwards looks, hoping to see

I don't know what, circle before I take off,

Into the woods to find my way home.

The seeming stillness, as I spend my hour, 

Is compelling in itself, I don't require 

A David Attenborough narration, I require 

Nothing,—on the fallen sycamore 

Which bridges the creek I become absorbed

In the intricacies of what surrounds me,—

The sounds, sights, dramas,—the flow

Of the creek, its bubbly, water-fountain burble,

The colors and variety of the wildflowers,

The sounds of breeze through the trees,

The bawling of hungry cattle across the fence,—

It is enough,—the eagles' nest is icing,

Almost bric-a-brac,—I don't come for the action,

I come because it is compelling, I have

No resistance to it, nor any desire to resist,—

It is my place of choice, and I would make it

Anyone's place of choice who would come,

For solitude is nothing special, I have it

In abundance, I would share it with anyone 

Who could settle into it without impatience.

But who could sit, perched on a creek-

Crossing sycamore, for an hour, craning

To see the nest high above, or find rapture

In wild mustard, or the flow of clear, 

Soft water, of all that is there for the taking?—

I know some who might, but those

Who might are not here, they are away,

Some in distant places,—none to share my

Creek and log,—I call them mine,

But they are ours,—our forest, our sky,

Our passing clouds,—so I watch, sit and watch,

Knowing the only way to share it

Is with words, as I'm doing, inadequately,—

And do not tut-tut, it is inadequate.