The Eagle, the Farmer and the Naturalist
A farmer found an eagle’s egg one day,
And placed it where his humble poultry lay.
His mother hen, not knowing what it hid,
Sat warm upon it, as she would her own.
In time the shells all cracked, and out they came,
The chicks and one small eagle, none the same
In destiny, though all looked just alike,
Wrapped in the down of dawn’s first fragile light.
The eagle grew among the chirping brood,
And pecked the dust and scratched for scattered food.
He ran and clucked and huddled in the pen,
And never raised his eyes to heaven’s blue.
He ate the grain the farmer’s hand had thrown,
He thought the chicken’s life was all he’d known,
And never guessed the sky was made for him,
Nor felt the king asleep beneath his skin.
Then came a naturalist along the road,
And paused to see the farmyard’s small abode.
His eyes fell on the bird, and he stood still,
Amazed at what the ordinary hid.
“Good farmer, come and see! Behold this one!
This is an eagle, born to chase the sun!”
The farmer shook his head and gave a grin:
“No, friend, it is a chick, like all within.”
The naturalist then lifted up the bird,
And set him on his palm, and spoke the word:
“Thou art an eagle, and not a chick. Fly!
The heavens are your birthright, not the dust!”
The eagle flapped, then fluttered to the ground,
And scratched among the chickens, safe and sound.
The farmer laughed aloud and slapped his knee:
“I told you so! A chick is all he’ll be.”
But still the naturalist would not give in.
He climbed a tree, and held the eagle’s skin
Of doubt up to the branches, to the air,
And spoke again with fire in his voice:
“Thou art an eagle, and not a chick! Rise!
Stretch out your wings and claim the open skies!”
The eagle trembled, looked, and then came down,
Back to the dust, the pen, the familiar ground.
The farmer roared with laughter, loud and long,
Convinced the naturalist was simply wrong.
“You waste your breath, my friend, you waste your day,
A chick is born a chick, and stays that way.”
Yet something in the naturalist stayed true,
A faith in what the eagle could pursue.
He knew that what a creature is inside
Cannot be undone by where it’s been raised.
So to the mountain’s summit he did climb,
With the eagle in his arms, to heights sublime.
The wind was wild, the valley far below,
The clouds drifted close enough to touch.
He lifted up the eagle to the sun,
And said, “Your journey has just now begun.
Thou art an eagle, and not a chick. Fly!”
And held him out against the open sky.
The eagle felt the mountain wind arise,
And saw the endless blue before his eyes.
Something awoke within his ancient blood,
A memory of heights he’d never flown.
He spread his wings, so wide, so strong, so free,
And leapt into the air, a majesty!
He soared above the clouds, above the peak,
The sky at last the home he’d longed to seek.
He climbed and climbed until he was a dot,
And never to the farmyard did he trot.
He never came again to scratch or cluck,
Nor to the farmer, to this very day.
For those who learn the truth of who they are
Will never settle for a lesser star.
So if you’ve lived beneath your destiny,
Remember: you’re an eagle. Rise. Be free.
Moral: Don’t let the place you were raised, or the people who doubt you, define what you were born to become. Surround yourself with those who see your wings, and climb until you find your sky.