Well Fed Upon the Battle

Signs of winter's coming cold
in autumn-winds, fall down like rain
both leaf and flake as creeping ice
capture the sky-like, fish-filled lake.

White sparkles, from the heaven's cold,
blanket now the dead and dying
as I watch with eyes, all seeing,
for silver scales in water, fading.

Tasty and tempting, the oily flesh calls
yet still there is a more tempting delight:
food laid out upon the ground
unmoving and breathless in winter's light.

Like a table set to dine upon
in times of fasting, so I'll gorge
on feast so rare… I cannot flee
for greatly it does call to me.

So down I fly, a feast for us
of creatures from a distant shore.
They rode the backs of giant snakes
to fall like trees far from the place
of their sea-fed northern homes.

Their raiding strength did not prevail
and thus tonight I dine here well
with stomach filled, along with kin
who lie upon the feet so near.

Hungry no more I'll settle down
to thank the wind for guiding me,
and to the ground for keeping warm
the bodies it delivered free.

And finally to the creatures dead
I'll raise my thanks on shrieking voice
for from their dying sacrifice
they have fed us eagles well