Nest

I had noticed it from far away. A conglomeration of sticks balanced on the side of the cliff. I stared at it. It wasn’t quite right. An eagle’s nest would have plenty of white poo around it. There was none. Even from miles away, bird nests can be easily seen, the white standing out like a neon sign. There was also no black poo. Black, sticky, drips of excrement meant pack rat not eagle. I couldn’t make that out either.

Closer inspection revealed that it was, indeed, an eagle’s nest. The white had been washed with only ghostly traces left behind. Years of rain had washed the cliff walls. I focused on looking for feathers. I figured that feathers left behind would have been captured by the wind, soft sacrifices lifted, twirled, and given to the four directions, but one never knew.

I found instead the brittle spine of a snake. And, three steps further on, another.

I didn’t dig them out. A friend had told me once that snakes were bad medicine and keeping the rattles off snakes invited bad medicine into your home. I pitched the collection of rattles I had. I may show a shed skin to grandkids but I don’t keep or play with snakes anymore. These spines would stay where they had fallen.

Are there other mysteries stuck between the sticks of the nest? Undoubtably. But you’ll never find me scaling the cliff to peer inside. Instead I’ll think of soaring on the thermals. Of the vigilance that detected movement of prey. Of the generations of young fed on a diet of rabbit and vole and snake. Of small golden feathers scattered among those that are darker brown. Of a wingspan taller than me by twelve inches.

The breeze lifts and rustles through the abundant grass and sighs and disappears.

****

I’ll write more about the dugout and geology, but not tonight

Find me here!

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