That's Right, We Bad

Bald eagles like to roost in the trees in my front garden, as they're the highest point on the ridge. They have a clear, clarion scream they like to loose up there, a slide-whistle aria like a loon singing opera. As near as I can tell, it means, "Check it out, dawg: I'm an eagle. And I'm 'way up high."

Giant birds; they glide in just over the eaves, casting a shadow like a pterodactyl on the sitting room rug. They're also devoted spouses, rarely apart from their mates. The bond seems more emotional than evolutionary; eagles seldom hunt coöperatively, and they certainly have no need for mutual defence.

When I was a kid, seeing one of these was a rare treat, never to be forgotten. Today it's extremely illegal to kill them, calling down a force of judiciary second only to homicide, and the logging and agricultural activity that undercut their ability to survive have been regulated in their favour.

So now such sightings are commonplace. Even boring.

But not for me.