The Wombat and the Eagle

The wombat was eating themeda on the rocky ledge,
the light breeze made the grass stalks quiver.
He worked along a safe distance from the edge,
on the cliff high above the river.

Fast moving shadow but not the slightest sound,
The eagle's judgement was quick and true.
She streached her legs and gently landed on the ground.
She liked this spot for the command of the view.

The wombat looked at this beautiful bird,
feathery gloss, the sleekness of form, the sparkle in her eye:
she looked at him, then without a word,
launched off into the sky.

There was nary a flap of her outstreached wings,
the breath from the wind she took.
This mastery of space such freedom brings.
The wombat could only gape and look.

Zoologists have studied wombats,
and this is what they've found:
a fundamental of wombatism
is to keep four feet on the ground.

But the wombat wanted to sail with her.
He lost his heart on that ledge.
He bounded so quick 'twas all a blur.
He flung himself over the edge!

Over and over he tumbled and spun.
What in Hell did he do this for?
This was the finish of what he'd begun.
Oblivious of fate he held his heart in his paw.

He had wanted to sail on the thermals with her,
And had jumped too quick to the fray.
All that was left of him was some fur.
The eagle sailed East in search of prey.