Poetic Interlude XVI

One of my wild-eyed ancestresses taught her daughters
How to tell the tiredness of creatures through their eyes.
A useless skill, I thought, worth less than smelling storms,
Or proving sickness from a season's herbs.
Looking into the sharp face of a bird of prey, I saw two wells
Of weariness, of weight, of empty waters.
Once carried on its wings and balanced briefly,
Now leached into its breath and blood and bone.
I began to soothe in haste with laughter, knowing
How desperation lifts with open mirth and light.
With its serene acceptance, soft connivings grew;
I though it not robbery to show it where to fish.
Did I not say to it, "Asses were made to bear."
That it might answer "So were women"?
I saw exhaustion, but I found
The words to use to lift a bird in flight,
Are words encouraging its soul to anchor deeper.