The eaglets are standing on the edges of the nests.

[fflo]

The eaglets are standing on the edges of the nests.

Wind wiggles them.  Now and then
they stick out arms, unhinge
the feathered flesh, its teenage
color changes like fresh paint,
highlights, with us those are called,
we who stretch and test and try not just
readying to leave the classic nest
but so over and over the eaglets are trite,
called up and hauled out to speak about us.

Yet there they are, literally.
There they are on the webcams,
one covered with eaglet shit
cuz yeah that camera angle
made for a great view
but the odds were way high
for some flying shit shoot
to hit the target, cloud the view,
need more than a season's rain
to clear up.  This poem
is cloudy too, but some
shows through it, though
by this stanza it stopped
feeling like a poem and
I don't fucking care,
I'm detached fine from the
eaglets and their pending fledging too.
fledge pledge minwax wane
tippy tippy quite insane
riff on rhymes, associate,
mad men letterman conflate
there once was a man from nantucket