I catch the ferry to Whidbey Island,
drive north to Maylor Point.
For the moment, the wind has chosen
to hold its breath. My pace could charitably be called
ambling, I stop often, enjoy the marina to the right
and Oak Harbor across the water.
Did you see the eagle? a man asks
walking toward me. He points back
the way I’d just come, and there
nature’s rock star perches
in the afternoon sun at the very top of a tree
a couple-dozen yards off the trail.
I must have been looking the other way.
Tide’s out and the mud flat’s exposed,
good hunting. I watch a crow land
in a branch just below the stately bird
and give a loud raspy caw, caw.
The eagle ignores him
and the pest flies away.
The crow reminds me of my son,
non-stop carping about how I drive
or lose phone numbers, money, days and especially
parked cars in large multilevel structures.
Tomorrow for my 85th birthday, I’ve decided to give up
my car keys to bully-boy.
This is my last trip to the island
where I’ve come for decades,
and all the bird names stick to the tip of my tongue.