November

The scales have tipped

You ride your bike alone through the woods. You pedal the low-line south, out onto the pavement; the waning gibbous moon is like a wisp of cloud in the late morning sky. You cross the trestle bridge over the river, then turn north; leaves tumble under your wheels.

You cut back into the woods where there is no trail. You use your bike to bushwhack through the tangled growth. You march resolutely along until you’re standing under the towering cottonwood. The sun is overhead now making it hard to find an angle through the bare branches; you squint your eyes and there it is, the eagle nest. You get out your binoculars and study the construction of the eyrie; you touch your hand to the tree; you feel the deeply furrowed ridges of the bark. You close your eyes—a wordless psalm.