Alan L. Winters
While on a journey far from home
I stop to rest on desert stone.
Just beyond, there stands a butte
Sacred to my people as long as I have known.
High above the desert floor,
I watch an eagle soar.
And as she climbs on silent winds,
I sit alone and think and dream
To glide on air unseen
And rise through sky on open wing.
Circling and growing small
Now swooping down to catch her prey
With talons flashing in the sun
To climb again and feed her young.
What things she sees I only dream,
Cottonwoods by hidden stream
For though my mind can wonder why,
I have no wings with which to fly.
©Copyright circa 2000 by Alan L. Winters