Eagle

The storm is past. Perhaps it was
Too brief. The cloud that belts the forehead
Of the eagle by the shore, said
To be bird of Zeus, has
Become an urn of sleep; it pours
Into my skull through lines of rain.
The thunder that it bore, the pain,
They’re carried far away like wars,
Behind horizons grey with dawn.
The eagle taught me flight, last year.
Someday you too will shed your brawn
And cross our skies, and leave what’s dear
In lines of ego to a lawn
Of dew agnostic: I’ll be here.