Had George’s quiet energy bounced off the hot pavement,
Hit the bank’s glass facade then shattered it into a million transparent pieces
God, I would’ve said, works like Robbin Hood.
Instead, George’s determination shattered something inside me.
And I quieted.
That’s when I heard his freshly-painted eagle call,
And in the first language,
which was once understood by all,
from bird to fish to man.
I perceived this black eagle
against a bald blue sky,
Soaring high in the heavens, and
Hunting nearest a white-hot sun.
It seemed to dare my vanes to spread;
To ask: why I do not soar?
Why I am not fearless in my strikes?
Why inspiration escapes my firm grip?
Why I perch without food —
Without a morsel to feed my creativity — Why —
when I am equipped to feed both myself and George?