The Unmistakable White Head

Riding south along the trail this evening after 5:00PM, I passed a tree I’ve sped by one hundred times before, to the east side of the little creek, just before Cedar Lane, which was now alight with bright, white flowers.  It reminded me of the trees along the road up from Shinagawa Station towards Shirokanedai in Tokyo, which explode in a floral conflagration during the magic springtime week, forever shifting, when the cherry blossoms show.  Every other time of year the trees stand, quite unassumingly, demanding no particular attention whatsoever.  I presume this is an apple tree, the petals of which will fall soon, a tree which I will never look at it the same way again. 

Further down the path, I crossed Plains Road and came to the rail bridge high above the creek flowing west.  I’d adjusted my mask from over my chin to over my mouth as I approached because there was a lady sitting there.  I gave a wave to her as I do, and she said: “bald eagle.”  I grabbed my breaks and looked over to where she was gesturing.  One hundred yards out, atop the majestic white sycamore that stands beside the bank was a black bald eagle with the unmistakable white head. 

I often take a pair of field glasses when I ride, just in case.  Would that I had today.  I tried to zoom in with my iPhone but it didn’t help much.  Still there he was, gazing down at all before him.  I commented that he could probably have his choice of just about anything he wanted to eat, save the cows.  She pointed out that there were a group of ducks below the national bird, which were oblivious and presumably comfortable in the knowledge that they were not target meals.  I stood and stared, wishing of course that he would dive down or sail off and then, when from further west came another bird which circled and landed.  Smaller than the first, this was another bald eagle, presumably the offspring of the one we’d been staring at. 

I’m glad I didn’t stand and wait for them to fly off, as they were still standing there when I returned about forty minutes later.  Their eagle-eyes presumably hadn’t spied much of anything worth diving for.  Along the way I’d been enjoying more of this Irish American Ragtime composer Joseph Lamb, his playing and his remarkable New Jersey accent.  Back home I noticed the she fox who had successfully helped herself to yet another squirrel this morning was casually sitting on my lawn, like it was her dining room.  Still full of squirrel meat, one presumes, she was trying to access the refrigerator one last time before night fall.  But there were no mammals to be seen and she eventually returned to her bedroom, in the wood between my house and the neighbors'.  

Thursday, 05/07/20