| An eagle’s nest on the head of an old redwood on one of the precipice-footed
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| ridges
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| Above Ventana Creek, that jagged country which nothing but a fallen meteor will
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| ever plow: no horseman
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| Will ever ride there, no hunter cross this ridge but the winged ones,
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| no one will steal the eggs from this fortress.
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| The she-eagle is old, her mate was shot long ago, she is now mated With a son
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| of hers.
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| When lightning blasted her nest she built it again on the same tree,
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| in the splinters of the thunder bolt.
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| In a broken shack an old man takes his time about dyin'
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| And just at the back a wild flowerbed that he’ll lie in
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| In dawn’s new light a man might venture
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| A horse drawn stage from Monterey.
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| The she-eagle is older than I: she was here when the fires of eighty-five raged
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| on these ridges,
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| She was lately fledged and dared not hunt ahead of them, but ate scorched meat.
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| The world has changed in her time; |
| humanity has multiplied,
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| But not here; |
| men’s hopes and thoughts and customs have changed,
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| their powers are enlarged, their powers and their follies have become
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| fantastic.
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| Spilled down the hill a wagon load of bodies lay scattered, shipwrecked at sea.
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| Limestone ore is all that mattered.
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| They took it from the hills right through the cargo doors
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| How many ships have come and gone at Thurso’s landing shore?
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| The unstable animal never has been changed so rapidly.
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| The motor and the plane and the great war have gone over him,
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| And Lenin has lived and Jehovah died: while the mother-eagle
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| Hunts her same hills, crying the same beautiful and lonely cry
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| And is never tired: dreams the same dreams,
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| And hears at night the rock-slides rattle and thunder in the
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| Throats of these living mountains.
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| It is good for man
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| To try all changes, progress and corruption, powers, peace and anguish,
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| not to go down the dinosaur’s way
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| Until all his capacities have been explored: and it is good for him
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| To know that his needs and nature are no more changed, in fact, in ten thousand
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| years than the beaks of eagles.
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| Of the eagle’s plight, we know that nature’s balance is undone.
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| And it’s the birthright of man to unify and live his life as one.
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| A whisper of the word will let you soar with your soul. |