Stopping by Bombay Hook

by DAVE SETER

My eyes unsure—from looking up too fast—
a single speck could be a bald eagle.
Reports of sightings drew me to wildlife refuges.
I’d perch in tree stands abandoned by hunters,
too desolate and cold even for their aching bones.
But chance is odd. Stopping by Bombay Hook
on a whim, my old haunt on the Atlantic Flyway,
a bald eagle shot across the sky to join another.
Two specks now tumbled in dance. In myth. In sky.
In dalliance. Where had I heard that word before?
Never mind, I was in love and lost to blinking
at ghosts, but existence is a funny thing, a list
of groceries, lovers, and eagles. They were mine:
I dropped my eyes to jot them—quickly—down.