The Eagle

On sunny afternoons the eagles wait Dead still, watching and waiting.

It’s beak as colourful as a ripe banana.

The eyes focusing into the distance like a camera lens, 

the pupil like an endless black hole.

Carefully camouflaging into the trees, almost as easily as taking a breath.

The evil eagle screeches whilst swooping,

It’s flaps its sore wing 

Waiting for assistance as it grips onto a tree like a helpless koala.