Two Poems
by Diane Webster




On Seeing Eagles


With my binoculars focused,

the eagle steps off his branch

and glides toward me.

Discomfort elbows my heart

like a prairie dog must feel

a moment before…


The eagle leads with its talons

as it grabs at the river’s current

dripping, rippling as it circles away

no heavier than before.


But behind I see another

land its fish flapping

on a branch between talons tight;

crows swoop close

for leftover tidbits

after the eagle feasts.




a line, (a short one)





Weighted by tins of cat food

the white plastic bag stands upright,

forgotten on the kitchen table

until it crinkles stress silence

with curious wonderings

and searching about the house

for noise

like a cricket scrabbling

through a narrow hole in a door jamb

until the cat slinks into the room

and stares at the bag

succumbing to gravity.



a black line


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