Richard tells me an eagle descended into his garden to pluck the feathers of his pet duck

Like preparing a meal

Like a ritual before death

The eagle stood on her back

the duck unsure what to do with herself 

Richard unsure what to do with himself (caught between horror and awe).

I think your duck is on our lawn, his neighbour told him weeks later

And she was, one hundred white feathers dotted across the grass along with her plum red insides

– snatched by a racoon
It wasn’t the ending I was expecting.

Left

Poems I wrote that subconsciously built BODY #2 (It’s never the eagle)

Right