Spot an eagle

August 26, 2013

When I am 89, I just hope I am able to get to the bathroom on my own, let alone share a fish sandwich and pound of Texas-style steak fries, a tap bear and staccato conversation over a pseudo wood table in a bar in St Francis, MN with a St Paulie Girl (that’s me, by the way.)   

A three foot wingspan glided away from me at the base of the cove this morning. I was ecstatic to find a white tail floating towards the middle of the Rum River and coast to the right so I was able to positively identify the eagle. My new best friend insists he wants to come to the river tomorrow, with the hopes of spotting the big bird of prey. I highly doubt he is capable of maneuvering the sketchy trail since I can barely slither along with my one semi-strong ankle to get to the dingy water. Hate to discourage him yet am not confident I could carry his, I suspect, under 90 pounds up and down the path. By that time, he will have slept and most likely forgotten all about the eagle.

I wander from one room to another, trying not to create too much hot wind around my body for fear it will consider sweating again. Cool washcloths against my forehead, belly and underarms only generate a moments reprieve from the stickiness of the humid air. How is it that we are hotter than the majority of the country. Impossible to imagine the heat index so high at 8:30pm. Need to wedge my head into the freezer for a bit so I can wind down for the day. Night.