Our eagle landed mid-meadow – an unusual move for it, but so was the time we sought. The
grass had grown old since the last visit: knee-deep it stood leaning on a crooked cane,
whistling some tune the wind had taught it. Coming down from the eagle’s back we could
hear pebbles chant gently beneath the soil, and the two songs merged into an ancient joy
that filled our wayward hearts. “This must be the place,” the bird said and bid farewell after
we blessed it. Thus was the campground decided; this nest for us to rest.
A commissioned prose poem by Juuso Tervo