top of page

Emory Jones

Eagle Snow


A strange, soft storm of white flakes

is drifting out of the summer sky,

drifting past tall mountainside evergreens

onto the nets of golden lichens

hung from their boughs,

onto the bear-tracked shores.


This is not an unseasonal snow squall,

not a flurry of wind-borne seeds.


It’s a fall of molted feathers from bald eagles

converging on the waterways by the hundreds,

bright heads and tails gleaming like beacons

all along the dark woodland slopes


Every river, every stream quivers

with salmon thrashing upcurrent to spawn

like rapids running in reverse.


If any more flowing juices

and beating hearts crowded in here

the place might start moving on its own.


Big trees, big birds, big fish, big bears,

immense peaks wrapped in great glaciers

that calve off into bays

where whales spout.

bottom of page