on the cold stone

The sky, achingly blue, sits heavy
on the grass in its own green sharpness.
Stillness.

A heart is throbbing on a cold stone.
The eagle's eye spies it from miles above
and my mind's eye hears the hiss of
talons unsheathed.

Legs run, wings flap,
a race for the heart.
Feathers rippling,
white dress ripping,
wind whistling
in protest
against
the two bodies pressing
through the space
called air.

Crash!
Into whiteness.
The heart trembles on its gray slab.

Feathers explode with filmy gossamer
rolling in dust, the two bodies choking
in the struggle
reaching, clawing, beast and bird.

For what is man, but a beast
without her heart?
Do not think for a moment
it is the mind
that separates the two.