Most people are quick to assume any hypothetical last eagle on apocalypse's eve would soon swoop earthwards and lick carrion. Perhaps. But that tells you more about most people than it does about any specific eagle.
Wide awake, eyes shut,
I see shades
deep blue oiled black,
rippled red.
Fast asleep, wide-eyed,
you praise mobs
eager to eat Earth.
It’s not our nature to begrudge
the boney blind bread.
This final human’s a guitar with broken strings.
Shape's the same,
The curved hollow’s connected to a wooden neck,
but tension's gone and harmony.
Use what you got?
A clumsy drum mass produced,
beat in service to your future robot masters.