No Illeagles Here
Spray painted on the side of a building
Yes, I too would banish the sickly eagles, roosted in their brownstones and double wides, their ranch homes and Mcmansions, picking nits from their wings, brooding their bad eggs. They learned about compassion from the fox that flees the henhouse with blood on his lips, so how can they be expected to feel what the fish feels when it is swept from the river in their bright claws?
On TV, an eagle complains about the crows that have moved in, how they mob him now on the street. So what if his father, and his father's father, et al., raided their nests, killed their young? That was the past, and at least he works for a living.
He teaches his sons the values of personal responsibility, how to cradle the butt of a Bushmaster M4 Carbine against the shoulder, how to stand their ground. He bows his sharp beak over the supper table, speaks words soft as eider down. He votes his conscience, has heart-to-hearts with his god. He sees what the world is coming to. On his weekends he paces the capitol lawn, holding a handmade sign: “If your not outraged your not paying attention.”