Who's at the gate? Came the creak again and again. Who's there? I wasn't afraid. I only wondered. I opened my eyes. It was 6:38 a.m. Again came the call of the rusty gate. My eagle!
I tossed back the covers and stumbled, pre-coffee, to open the door. There he was. Calling from his favored pine branch. Waiting.
He opened his wings. Welcome, he might as well have said. He folded them up again, crouched, leaned toward the bay, opened wide and lifted off, ever so slowly. His wings whispered, "Follow me, and don't forget to read Graeme Gibson today." "Right," I answered.
I had intended to write about the ever-changing nature of the bay water this morning, but a bald eagle woke me up. dkm
