The Hills We Die Upon

An eagle swoops in jetting wind,
Its feathers white with air.
It prides itself in reticence
And glides without a care.

Its eyes, they say, may pierce the skies,
On which its vision sits,
But cannot see, as time goes by,
Wherefore its fate befits. 

For lost it is, in freezing air.
It peers below: a lake.
Its own reflection, hard it stares,
The destination vague.

And hurricanes, they hold it back
Suspended o'er the earth.
But winds of change neglect attack,
Its countenance affirmed.

It thinks itself as capable
To ward off enemies;
But it is ideational,
For foes it cannot see.

Its rival has been hidden in
The bushes of the glen;
The hunter has committed him
By rifle and by pen.

And dare they dream to capture it
By mass of weaving nets,
Then flies the eagle, apt to fit
Between their sneering breaths.

But energy can last for long
Despite their fights and stress;
The eagle cannot fly along
For more, nevertheless.

The landing strip is variable;
No solid ground in reach
For tired bird to fight again,
Once more unto the breach.

The wind begins to die in strength;
The hunter cocks their gun.
The eagle's nest is still at length
But is not yet undone.

It aims to swoop beneath the wind
To throw the hunter's track
Before the hunter rounds the bend
And fires with a crack.

Of course, they know the wrong they draw
But blinded they are still;
By despotism, greed, and law
They swarm and take their fill.

The eagle turns its head to see
The barrel and the stock;
But threat it sees it not to be
For pain has cloaked its shock.

It ponders for a second only,
More than e'er before,
Then flaps its wings, its head stretched wholly
T'ward the distant shore.

A shot is heard across the chill
Of echoes through the wood;
For just a moment, all is still
As maybe it withstood. 

But just as wind began to pick
Itself up and rebound,
The eagle flinches, drops its head
And plummets to the ground.

* * *

Are hills we choose to die upon
The less important parts
Of something far beyond ourselves,
Or only in our hearts?

The problem then remains that we
Know not of why we do;
We have our many reasons be
Without a lucid clue.

We point our weapons, drawn and firm,
At eagles far and wide
Without the notion those free birds
Are what keep us alive.

A time for fighting and to shout
At odds with evil schemes;
Yet often what we fuss against
Is not all what it seems.

The one dividing factor in
Our prejudicial ways:
The notion only we may sin
For truth and virtuous praise.

Awake, O sleeper! Cure thyself
Of all iniquities!
If existential, lukewarm, passive,
Worst of all to be.

But take great care to look within
All while you work and pray;
For when the silent meet their end,
For then shall come the day.