The day started in typical January fashion – cruel, cold, and gray – so I spent much of the morning reading on the couch, yearning for brighter light and wanting for something warm. As the hours ticked away, the sun fought to make a showing, and the clouds parted to afford a peek at a soft blue sky. The tops of trees, mostly bare branches now, were lit up brilliantly – warm wood against a cool mottled grayish-blue firmament.
Indoors, a few ferns and a Norfolk Island Pine basked in the available light and the water vapor of the humidifier. The heat was on steadily throughout the day, drying the air and consistently reminding us that it was still winter. Not that we needed any reminders. The wind whispered fiercely, its hissing heard through the windows and the kitchen vent. January was stalling, like most guests you wanted to leave sooner rather than later. Wandering to the front door, I peered into the tall thuja hedge and noticed some movement in the upper branches. Watching to see whether a bird would emerge, or if a squirrel would scurry down the trunk, I waited until I could see the beak of a cardinal. Hopping a bit higher, it drew my gaze upward, to something I had never seen above our home in almost twenty years of living here.
Above the trees, high in the sky, and resplendent in the light from the setting sun, a bald eagle soared. Struck by disbelief, I screamed for Andy to come and confirm what I was seeing. We hurried onto the front step and watched its bright white head and tail, unmistakable no matter how high it was. I didn’t have time to get a photo, and I just wanted to stay there and keep my eyes on its magnificence fading behind a line of trees. Standing next to Andy, the cold beginning to bite, I lingered a little while longer in case the majestic creature returned. Our brief brush with such glory felt like a benevolent sign, a blessing of some sort ~ a soaring ray of hope at a time when the world needed it.
We stepped back inside, into the warmth of our home, and continued our walk through winter.
