Black Eagle

Black Eagle stood in silence
by the swift flowing river,
saw it dashing and tumbling,
white, sparkling and clear.
He looked to the mountains
to see snow time was coming
with a change in the weather,
and a sharp chill in his nose.
He knew the season was over
when wind ruffled the feathers
of his fine beaded headdress
and the fringe of his shirt.

A glorious bright summer
had returned a harvest of gold,
but now the fields were brown,
and the days had grown cold.
His sharp sight of an eagle,
body and soul of a man,
his intuition and wisdom
stood him apart from his tribe.
When his lifespan had ended,
his spirit soared onwards
to the happy hunting grounds,
beyond the mountains and sky.

But his memory lives on
in tales told round the camp fire,
look into the leaping flames
or see him haunting in dreams.
Leaves rustle in the forest,
his footsteps can be heard there,
the whispering in the wind
shows that he must be near.
Look up to the high mountains,
peer into the running stream,
feel his presence and guidance
and know that he is still here.

Gilly J

Gilly,
A good poem about a Native American. Is he someone real or made up?
Your friend,
David Fox

Dear **Gilly**: Black Eagle persists,
at least in your fine verbal twists.
He stays quite bucolic
and if alcoholic
drinks deeply to anglicized gists.

That was good Gilly! ~Scott

It was a character I was thinking about for a story, but he ended up in a poem instead. Thank you for the comments.

An excellent poem, Gilly!

I really like the way that you ended the poem with him being remembered in various ways.

Even though the United States has changed so much from the days when the Native Americans were the primary inhabitants, their cultures are still an important influence.

This is a version of a beautiful Navajo prayer that expresses their philosophy of life:

As elusive as the flame of the campfire, you paint the eagle.

Steve spirit of the poem Riggs

well done xx