At the St. Louis Zoo, Corey and I lean        across the railing, peer

at eagles.         We are an awe of humans, a wonder        of flightless

mammals. These bold        birds        have muscled legs,

thick,         brown feathers amid growing green leaves, and they look

more like gym-rat macho men,         a power lifting pair,     pro-wrestlers wearing

body paint, than regal birds.    A pair, like us, but our flat    un-taloned

feet cannot leave the ground,         grass-bound. We are fragile,     sacked

with skin that cannot sprout    a single feather.         But when his fingers trail

my hipbone, my clavicle, my spine,     they feel light as air.     They could pass

for feathers,

could give me flight.