This morning, the bald eagle perched on the lamppost above the highway. Traveling at 60 miles an hour, I looked as long as I could but did not attempt to take a picture. Seeing that enormous presence in the morning always feels like a blessing.
Later, restless from sitting too long at my desk and screen, I walked along the creek, and that too feels like a blessing. First, the walking, bad knee and all. Then the bridge with the water sliding under, the daily changes as plants bloom, as the rose hips start to swell fat and bright, as the water rises after rain and then falls low–so low in the drought year I worried it would not come back.
Sometimes, a heron. Today, only a small white fluff of a dog running, dragging a dusty red leash, a young woman stumbling to grasp it and stop him. Easy. I took a step to the left, and the pup was so surprised that he stopped. We laughed together as she picked up the leash.
Little moments like these.
For a poem, one of my favorites–yes, urban, and yet the fox is a wildness in Searching for Pittsburgh by Jack Gilbert.