Cleave

Found in a field, an eagle, though freshly dead, bore a
weasel skull still locked in final bite into feathered throat.
A chance meeting, talons swoop, weasel bites, jaw cleaves.
It’s a fanged companionship, but it is, I suppose,
for life. A pact: silent and instinctive:
We’re in this together now.
It’s grim like blood turning cream feathers sunset pink.

So, will you too, cleave deep? Sink your claws, bloodletting, into me and cling, so that together we’ll take flight again. Shield my neck from harm and I will cherish your very bones, pick them clean, leave nothing to the rot, and love the sound of wind whistling through your skull.