Fierce I am, in my natural state, a wild and fierce bird. Highly-sexed too, always have been. We are, our band of tattered and beautiful eyrie-dwelling creatures. But, for all that the surges of lust, and rapacious hunger, are mighty in my veins, I don’t want to be caught and tamed in the process: Don’t want the ragged pieces of bloody meat to lead me to net or trap.
Eagle myself, I need another eagle to mate with. It’s not what the humans would call racism, or desire only to stick to one type; it’s more that I want a mate as fierce and wild and unconventional, as red in beak and claw, as I.
I want a mate who, like me, cannot wait to reach the nest and is happy, indeed exultant, to dive lustily on the wing; to soar, coupled, above woods, streams, the Full Moon; to scream and caw out raptor joy through madly-silvered skies.
I would sooner be ripped apart by ferocious hounds than submit to pinioning; would rather feel the agony of hot metal piercing my body than be tethered and ringed round the leg; would prefer the wicked scarlet spurts and agonising pains of battle high up in the air to being perched and hooded in castle or bird sanctuary.
I am fierce, though not, in my own eagle way, unmannerly. I abide by the rules of the wind and tides, the laws, and lore, of my kind.
On fields of battle, I will pluck out the eyes of the dead for my chicks, or tease out the strands of blood-stiffened hair to line my nest; I will feast on flesh whose owner has long gone, and rend the sinews of small rodents still pumping and squealing and running.
I am a force. I am power. I am fierce.
I am Eagle.
Note: This was what I call a guided piece, in that the voice appeared spontaneously and wrote its own words! Inaccuracies concerning eagles and their habits may annoy some, therefore!