it_deserves_to_be_seen_in_its_own_light ovenbird Far above the frozen pond with its sord of Mallards, above the hilltop waving with prickly teasel, over the path lined with milkweed pods, split open and spilling all their downy dreams: two eagles, dancing. They come together, wing tips touching, then part, making art of the distance between them, hearts stretched to their outer extent, straining against their shared gravity then collapsing into each other, a flurry of feathers and wind. There’s glory in the space defined by their wheeling bodies, elation in the sudden brush of beaks. They are forever leaving and forever returning to each other, lovers with their heads in a nimbus of sun, every meeting made hushed and holy by the necessity of their furthest orbit. Touch is transcendental when it follows an absence pulled taut against the chest. Their movement describes a circle, a recursive path in the air, where they meet each other eternally, surprised and delighted on each swift pass, their hearts the blazes that mark every beginning and every end, their eyes picking each other out against the glare. 260227 what's it to you? who go blather from