I saw the eagle soar that day
on my way to Trinidad
to walk from sidewalks, shops, trinkets
to redwoods tall and shady deep

That eagle, beak hooked, gleaming bright
a yellow barb to hook the sun
and pull it there behind its flight
into the always never-end

of trees, and fogs and oceans song
of silences and sounds of streams
I was on my way to Trinidad
and melancholic bitter-sweet