A good friend of mine read this one somewhere on the net last week.

How high flies the eagle
And its mate
Passing mountains,
Puny and low
Yet ramparts still.

Below them myriad life
In complex forms and paths
Roaring by quietly
That only the wind can hear.
How free, how proud
Doing what only the eagle can do
And, regal and benign,
Yet hunting, always hunting.

How zen is that? Or better yet, now gnar?