His swooping flight is almost like a predatory stoop: raw primal avian power, but finessed with such incredible control. I am the prey, but I am not weak: my own wings beat, lifting me on the softly supporting air, spiralling me on the updraft so that now it is I who stoop, and he who cartwheels away. Still, the strength in that male body, the power in those wings, impresses me: stimulates me - a worthy mate, certainly. Like an aerial acrobat he swoops again, a stick in his cruelly curved beak: right at me, like a death stoop - but aside at the last and the stick passed between us, his wings thrashing the air, swoop turned to soar, while below him I spread, glide, in silent acknowledgement.
The branch seized by my talons, grasped, my flight so precise that it hardly sways.
I am ready.
Eager, fast: the mating of birds - yes, even of eagles - brutal, his body mounting me from behind, taking me fast and hard, loud fluttering fucking, more fight than fuck but fucking it is - the rituals observed, the fucking consummated: display, submission, mating.
The mating of eagles.