The Hollow Bones of Dominion: An Ode to the Bald Eagle #poetry

The Hollow Bone Prophecy (Before the Shell Cracks)

Before it was egg, it was wind— an incantation whistled through the ribcage of extinct beasts, a secret folded in the sinew of time. The sky whispered a name long before it was given wings.

A mother perches in the architecture of silence, waiting for the first tremor of shell, the first rebellion of a beak against its prison. The egg is not merely birth. It is war against stillness.

Deep in the yolk, a hunger is born, a map sketched in veins, leading always to the hunt. The universe tightens around the embryo, like the eye of a predator fixing upon the pulse of prey. This is not a beginning. This is the continuation of something older than time.

The Birth of a Beak (Genesis in the Cradle of Sky)

Not an egg but a conspiracy of shell, splintering with the first inhale, a shiver of dawn-colored flesh— a scream before sound is born. Featherless fists punch the sun, demanding the scroll of wind, worm script and fish-gut prophecy. A god with wet wings, eyes open too soon.

Hunger is law. The nest a courtroom. Feathers erupt like knives from pores that once held only soft, unfinished questions. Every feather an arrow pointing skyward.

The first drop from the branch— gravity’s invitation, terror's baptism. A faltering gospel stitched to sinew and bone, learning lift from the violence of fall.

The world opens in violent whispers, urging the fledgling forward, its beak a new instrument of fate, its talons aching with the weight of future conquests. The sky does not welcome—it demands.

Beneath, rivers coil like hungry tongues, and in the shadows of branches below, a mother’s watchful eye carves runes into the air. Lessons not spoken, only learned by force.

The Eyes of Dominion (Vision as Verdict, Sight as War)

A thousand miles of map unfurls behind twin golden lenses, where mice are written in ink too small for human hands. Every glance a judgment, every blink a law passed in silence.

Wingspan erasing distance like a careless god, sovereignty perched on the lip of a river’s breath. Kingdoms pulse in the rodent’s ribs, awaiting trial.

Sky bends to the mandate of pupils carved from ember, each gaze an executioner’s unspoken command. Do not look. To look is to be seen.

The iris holds a scripture only prey understands, the sharp lines of inevitability, a geometry of death traced in flight. Nothing hides from the eye that was sculpted by the storm.

Gaze long enough, and the world unravels, its threads exposed in the twitch of a tail, in the nervous beat of wings not yet caught. A prophecy unwinds in the open air, signed in fear.

The Blood Sermon (Hunting as Theology)

The sermon begins with a shadow, a hymn stitched to the spine of fleeing flesh. Prayer is a scream between talons.

Air doesn’t carry, it conspires. The river doesn’t reflect, it warns. Somewhere below, something runs without hope.

Strike like the punctuation of death, a full stop made of hooked bone. A baptism not of water, but of crimson tongues.

The feast is a ritual, the breaking of flesh as sacred as the breaking of dawn. Each bite, a communion. Each swallow, a psalm.

A sermon whispered in the wind: You were born to run, I was born to chase. Your bones were made to break, mine were made to grasp. Your breath is temporary, my hunger eternal. Nothing dies, only transfers. The sky is always hungry.

The Feathered Phantom (Myth of the Ghost Wing)

Even when absent, the eagle is present— a haunt on the sky’s stretched parchment. Not a bird, but the echo of flight.

Old bones whisper, carved on the backs of mountains, where silence waits for the brush of wind. A shape on the edge of memory, seen but never touched.

Do not trust stillness. The air is a ledger, and somewhere within its pages, a shadow sharpens its talons.

Legends tell of an eagle with feathers spun from midnight, a ghost-winged hunter that drinks the dusk. The sky is its cathedral, its gospel written in wind.

In the breath between storms, it lingers— not as flesh, but as the rumor of motion. Every feather an unwritten verse, every wingbeat an untold story. To hear the wind is to hear the eagle, even when it has gone.

The Sky’s Last Testament (Eternity in the Hollow Bones)

The wind does not forget its children. Even when wings falter, even when flesh dissolves, the sky remembers.

A single feather spirals down, a torn syllable from an ancient text. No bird flies forever, but the wind is an unbroken hymn.

The bones of the eagle return to dust, whispered into the earth’s quiet mouth, while above, another egg quivers, the next prophecy waiting to be fulfilled. Nothing ends, only begins again.

You (The Gaze That Watches, The Shadow That Fears)

You look up and see me, wings folded in scripture, talons whispering on the wind. You are not prey. Not yet.

You watch my spiral, my descent, and wonder if I know your name. Does the storm know the tree before it bends?

You imagine my hunger, the weight of my stare, pressing into your ribs like prophecy. Do you know what it is to be seen, truly seen?

Your hands carve myths in the dirt, poems of wings and shadow. But the sky is no place for longing— only for those who dare to fall.

Me (The Feather and the Fire, The End and the Air)

I am flight, I am fall, I am wind's decree. I am hunger unshackled from need. I am the sky’s instrument, the sun’s dagger, the question and the answer.

I have been before names were spoken. I have burned the horizon with my wings. I have carried the last breaths of prey into the void. And I will be long after your name fades.

You write poems to remember me. I carve the air to forget you. We are not the same.

---

#BaldEagle #Poetry #FlightAndFury #PredatorAndPrey #SkyboundMyth #FeathersAndFate #WildMajesty #PoeticDominion