An eagle, mighty and bold, flies over the forest, for it is his kingdom- and he is the king. The ruler of this veridian land. He spots mice running through the lush undergrowth and foxes training their young to fight. He sees an old badger bumbling on his daily routine, to find berries and other things that he can eat for his breakfast.

The eagle flies further over his domain, noticing the smaller things: trees sprouting from new earth, and he can hear the sound of baby birds calling for their mothers. He sees beetles crawling up trees, their iridescent carapaces shining fiery red in the rising dawn light. He hears the bees wings, buzzing and humming and the gentle sounds of the streams flowing over smooth grey river rocks. He hears the fish in the streams, their silvery scales like a beautiful moonbeam. The eagle flies west, where he knows not of his people, for he has not heard the songs of the woodpeckers and sparrows. He flies, graceful and powerful, seeing men, marching over the tangled roots, and fallen branches, scaring the animals and birds. He swoops lower, to see the blight of his kingdom. He sees the men, powerful and evil, cutting down the glorious pines, splendid spruces, and ancient oaks.

Still west, the eagle flies, seeing the terrors and tragedies of his kingdom. He sees the bodies of chicks, fallen from their nests after their trees were fell, their mothers scared away by brutal men. He sees families of frightened dormice, huddled by tree stumps, scared and alone and he sees fox cubs, mere skin and bone, for their mother couldn’t provide them food. He sees the burning trees, and smoke-filled skies, and realises, that he, the King of the Forest, no longer wears his crown.