Fishing for Breakfast

 Fishing for Breakfast

A cold December morning on the roaring river.

An eagle in the tree overhead goes airborne as I pass,

wings his way over the water, and, with a sudden dive,

catches a fish in his talons.

Lands far upriver.

On the far shore, another eagle watches with a level of intensity,

that only an eagle can, but remains motionless.

Perhaps has already had his morning meal.

I head home for my toast and granola.