Eagles 3

It seems like only yesterday that the eaglets were peeping (their whistle goes up at the end like Austra’ian, where the ospreys’ goes down at the end like a souf Londoner ).  The last time I saw them they were trying their fledgling wings and their little heads were poking up above the huge – 6 feet across?- -doughnut of branches, big ones! – high in the pines on the point of Hodgson’s Island.  But really yesterday I sailed close to shore, and there, quite suddenly, was one of this year’s twins, out of the nest, perched on a branch.  Surprised me when he swam into the binocular view – seemingly and suddenly as big as Mom, but then I realized that it’s just his feathers that were juvenile, puffed-out, giving him a hooded look like an owl.  He also had that owl stillness, already low in his body and regal; no other word will work even though this bird is the symbol of our non-monarchal republic.

How did they grow so fast from tern-sized squawker to commanding the cove from his perch?  How did he gain so much apparent wisdom in his face in a few short weeks?  These animals must partake of their ancestors’ accumulated wisdom the way Jane Auel says the Neanderthals did.  Or perhaps it is just that they look down so sharp-eyed at the rest of us fool mortals, scurrying around scavenging at the bottom of the air-ocean.

One of us fool mortals is Joy Vaughn, a local artist and no fool.  She comes out to see the eagles nearly every day, and she was out there in her outboard with her binoculars when I was, “They’re my grandchildren,” she says, laying claim to ‘my’ eagles.  Soon the young ‘uns ‘ll be looking for a new place to nest.

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