FURIOSO MI AMICI
There was once a sound in a twisted tongue all
wrong about something or other. The talent
was in the parting, not the arrival, the pulling,
not the lock. I watched twenty eagles stay
their place, then swooping over the valley's
waters. What they engaged was soon dead.
That sound, that sound - it was the pummeled
scram of a mighty death; things going down in
a natural ferment. Fire and fear and toil.