The sun was setting in Sierra Vista, Arizona. A warm breeze blew through the aged oak trees of the Ft. Huachuca cemetery. The large but fluent black eagle swept over marble town, flying just above the rows of the white headstones. It landed on a headstone, and began to rip apart the juvenescent squirrel, that had been feeding on the ground below. The indiscretion of the young squirrel was his undoing; that and the youngster had slept through the class his father once had taught the family on the dangers that lurked from the sky.
It had no such concerns now.
A sudden gust of wind came up from the trees, which startled the eagle,
and temporarily interrupted it’s meal. The black eagle cried out, issuing a challenge. It stared fiercely in the direction of the trees, searching into the perimeter; searching out any threats, imminent or otherwise. Finding none, the eagle continued to feast, as Wendell T. Willetto rested comfortably in his new surroundings.
The sun was setting as the black eagle finished devouring the squirrel.
Blood dripped down the front of Wendell’s headstone. The powerful black eagle leapt from it’s marble perch, and began its laborious ascent, spiraling upward into the blackened sky. The black eagle dream swept gently, silently, over the small town of the dead. The wind blew, the eagle flew, and the perished continued to rest another day.