The Eagle Poem by Gert Strydom

I saw the eagle turn in air space
on radial winds
like a kite it hanged there,

a dot high above in the blue,
a thing clenching to the heights
that knows to where those winds blow
time and again turning on its circling course.

Almost effortless with equilibrium
it is a master of the air,
until it dives like a thunderbolt
and in swiftness
exposes its claws downwards
descending deadly, in a moment,
right on target.