Scree . . . whoosh . . .
just as I look out my window, a bald eagle swoops and dives, talons grasping a fish from our neighborhood lake. A rare enough event, but the chills came because I was on the phone with my late Dad’s income tax preparer, who is sad to hear of his death and telling me what a character he was.
He changed his answering machine message often, always ending with, “God bless America!”
The very first time I saw a bald eagle was while on the phone with him, and tears came fast to my eyes.
Since his death, I’ve hungered for some sign from the other side. No lingering presence or dream images have come. He is truly gone.
So, pardon me for projecting human desire onto wildlife.
Whoosh . . . scree . . .
photos are from a swamp tour in Louisiana (not Parkwood Lake)