The grace of the eagle is his wings,
Golden-brown and long and forked,
Like the robes of so many kings,
The majesty of nature's force.

The grace of the eagle is his strike,
Like a rock he plummets down,
The mouse is dead with just one swipe,
And lunch is served without a sound.

The grace of the eagle is his claws,
Bent and pointed like a hook,
Closing on his prey like jaws,
Spearing catfish in a brook.

The grace of the eagle is his eyes,
Beady drops under feather hoods,
Seeing all and looking wise,
Seeking out the varmint goods.

The grace of the eagle is his heart,
Flooded with his cunning schemes,
Wilderness beauty from the start,
His fierceness building nature's beams.