Wings (a poem)
The evening sun dies slowly
Men and women wend their way from work to home
Earbuds in, ignoring
All around them, locked in their own worlds
The roar of traffic blocked away
Until one pair of eyes looks up
High above the humdrum, black wings
Catch the air, swift flying
White head catching the light
Enough for pause
Brain argues with eyes
The bird remains real
An eagle in the city
The woman stops, enjoys
Then gone, and she looks down
She remains surrounded
Suits trapped in music
Not one of them looked up
Not one saw
This incident really happened at a crowded bus stop above a Metro station in the Maryland suburbs of D.C.
I have always said people don't look up. Often they don't pay any attention at all to anything not directly relevant to them.
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