Another Painting Day, Painting the Barn

Another painting day, perched atop the ladder,
propped precariously at the top of the barn that isn’t a barn,
painting the trim that frames my home, barn-shaped,
a brilliant red, a barn red, the finishing touches
tying my place together, the dark of brown
and brilliant red in sharp contrast, framed,
each standing out from the other in starkness;
and the eagle calls again, this day too, calling my gaze
away, towards the lake, searching, seeking him out,
following his voice and, my eyes keenly trained, finding him,
a small white dot in a tree, long dead, on the distant shore
opposite my work, a clear view from this height, spotting him
in a scraggly tree, tall and bare and lifeless but for him there; 
he calls me, now, to look there, squinting
across this channel that separates us, him and me,
perched and staring out, we two, here at the lake,
calls me, to himself perhaps, in eagle cry,
away from my chore for a short time, time enough,
perched there on my own scraggly tree of a ladder,
time enough to see him lift up, his great wings spread,
and disappear beyond the trees, above the hills,
over an horizon where I cannot go, grounded as I am,
here atop the ladder, perched and staring, squinting,
small, at the lake, small, in nature’s realm,
and brought back to my task, the job at hand,
another painting day, painting the barn,
tying us all together.