Eagle Morning

29 Dec 2005

In the tree top above my tent a pair of bald eagles chirp happily, falling from limb to limb, catching air at the last possible moment. Now they are feathers over the river joined by an immature eagle with an umber splashed tail, and a head rushing toward white. The rain that held us all in our nests for and a day and a half is gone. Our beds are still warm feathers--and sticks.. I stretch, talking to my neighbors about little things, and how great it is to be rid of the sound of water falling on everything. It is clear that after so much down time we all just want to hear voices over the water. I play my flute because it sounds like their language. It is not the windy part of the day though, or the hour when the moon nods through the trees. Morning makes the notes weaker. It is talk about food after a heavy meal, and no ears are listening. At night the cedar flute prepares the heart for peaceful ease into evening. With a few high notes from the flute, I say good-bye to camp mates. Turning from the water, I begin to pack camp. There is a sadness not easy to touch that comes with seeing gifts of creation with no other eyes to see them, confirm them. No eyes to touch them with yours, smiling back at you in verbal silence. On a level not easy to explain, wine is turned back into water.

Without eating breakfast or mashing coffee beans in my cup for the press, because all the easy wood is soaked, I push past the first half dozen miles of the day. Bad call. It is miles up a steep hill, making me wish that I at least ate cold batter rather than nothing. Towns are dots on clean paper as I fall to the bottom of PA. I know that I will feel the void under my belt for hours to come. It is a long time before my cup is filled with coffee. It is also a long time before my ears take in another human voice, but I do not mention the eagles. In my mind they are done flying.