The hum of power lines like whistling oblivion. In the middle of a yard. Over there the fields stretch and hump one over the other. An eagle swoops, but I do not stand in awe at the eagle’s majestic wingspan or it’s white head, knife beak. Instead, I run for the little dogs that chase each other in the yard: knit toy, muddied paws, chewing bark. They do not know that eagles have been known to snatch small animals from yards. I imagine the worst. They do not know why I run close and call them with angry voice or with arms flailing and wrap myself around them. The eagle circles above, dipping low, but I am not a small animal and the eagle has kept its course, has passed me over, has spared me. I do not see the eagle. My body has that electric feeling like when you round the corner and see a celebrity in the shoe store or smoking on the corner outside the coffee shop in New York city, that moment when the lights dim, go black, and then, with tremendous force, shoot on to reveal the spectacle of something live, something living. Another bird caws above me, but it is not an eagle, it is a seagull, the rat of the air. My wife, who has never seen a seagull, says, “look at that one. It’s beautiful.” “Did you see the eagle?” “No,” she says, “but I watched you run away.” “Go inside,” I say to the dogs,” go and play and I’ll feed you soon.” We stand and wait. I am waiting for the eagle again. It does not come.
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