The Feast of the Owl
By Jocelyn Eide


I thought many times about ignoring the letter. I moved it to the edge of the counter directly above the garbage can and tried day after day to slide it into nonexistence. Everything from I was just passing by and, whoops!, to oh look, junk mail, but I never went through with it. A few days later I became more aggressive. I pushed and pushed and pushed until my fingers were bruised and my nail beds cracked. It persisted, stubbornly and directly against my will. It mocked me, teased me, and chided me with its worn white envelope and loopy cursive. I folded first. Using the serrated blade of a steak knife, I sawed the thin paper. Inside lay an outdated coupon for whipped dessert topping. The old paper was marred with grease stains, and the color faded to where the blueberry pie appeared brown and rust colored. I flipped it over and read:

Jackie,

My eyes are losing stamina. The doctor says it won’t be long until everything has dimmed. There are a few things I want to see once more. You are one.

Grandmother

The paper felt careless and flimsy in my hands. Nearly transparent in parts, I marveled at how I was expected to take it seriously. Angry, afraid, belligerent, and hopeful, I did the only thing that made sense. I wadded the paper into one tiny ball and shoved it into my mouth and swallowed. This was the only way I could begin to understand the essence of something. Several hours of indigestion later, I realized I had a debt to pay.

I packed for all four seasons on earth and some I suspected to exist on Jupiter and Pluto. My suitcase was enormous, gargantuan even, heavy enough that I thought about leaving it there, and then I did. I couldn’t commit to anything and I didn’t think it mattered. From the letter she suggested she couldn’t see anyway. It really didn’t matter if I wore the same blouse. It was bound to be a short visit. And yet, without further argument, without even thinking about running down the hall to my room and burying myself under the covers until night and day blended into one unfathomable fatigue, I got behind the wheel.

Grandmother lived out in the country accessible only after a long journey of interstates to a network of highways, and finally a long unmarked gravel road. The last highway before her road had the particularity of being called the Nine Mile ‘Y’. Nine miles of outstretched arms collided into one stem. There aren’t many cars after one passes into the stem. The highway is old and neglected, bearing the wear of low maintenance and heavy machinery. On that late spring night, I didn’t recall passing anyone. No headlights. No taillights. No truckers to flash and listen to the horn blare into the night. It made me a little wary, out there all alone with all that starlight, but it certainly wasn’t an oddity. It had been years, and the gravel embankment marking her road surprised me. I screeched off the highway spraying gravel into the night like a reckless teenager.

A few miles down the road where the foothills transform into a large tableau of sagebrush and rabbit holes, the owls appeared. Darting through the night sky they swooped up and down in sharp furtive bursts. The air hummed with hoots. There were so many, I couldn’t begin to count. They had always seemed like stoic and solitary creatures full of wisdom and loneliness. Witnessing this thriving owl community challenged my worldview. There was so much I had been wrong about. My headlights shone a great distance ahead revealing these great birds of prey amidst the hunt. The ground teemed with terrified rabbits, and field mice scurried over the surface in a desperate attempt to find the safety of their burrows. Run little creatures, run, I thought. Then, fly magnificent beasts, fly! I couldn’t pick a side. I didn’t want to. My dinner laid on the floorboards with wadded up napkins and empty mustard packets. I needed something. Above, shrouded in the darkness of the night sky the owls honed their eyes on the slightest movement. Plunging recklessly downward to skim the ground’s surface they emerged with struggling prey in their talons. I think I was exhilarated. I imagined what it was like to be in that moment, dangling from a talon awaiting a gruesome demise. I forgot where and who I was and drove faster looking out all of the windows and steering with my knee. My hands took turns covering my mouth and eyes.

Thunk. A large solid form crashed against the windshield. Two hollow and illuminated eyes stared into my own. At the very bottom of those eyes I found my own image staring back at me. Guilty. I slammed on the brakes. The windshield spidered—forming one great fissure clear across the passenger side.

The owl was barely breathing. Scooping the frail bird in my arms, I dashed to the ditch at the side of the road. He shivered as I rocked him in my arms, stroking the feathers away from his eyes and blowing hot air on his downy chest. A dust cloud lingered in the air, filtering through the light of the headlights. The radio blared static and the open door alarm beeped on a loop. My heart raced and in one moment the enormity of what I had done crashed down on me like a meteor. Pieces of shame and wickedness littered the ground all around me. Uncountable pieces. I couldn’t begin to fix it. One of his wings broke in the collision. The hollow bone pressed against my arm. Slowly, I shifted his weight to relieve the pressure. He wheezed in pain.

“Please tell my owlets that I love them,” he began.

“Shh,” I said. “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be fine.”

“No, I’m not. I’m bleeding.”

“No, it’s just a broken wing, I’ll take care of you.” I would. He could sleep in my bed if he wanted to. I’d take the couch unless we developed a relationship and he wanted me there next to him. He wouldn’t have to know I couldn’t commit.

“On the inside,” he said. “It won’t be much longer.

“No.” I started to cry. This was going to be sad, I could feel it.

“Promise me you will tell my owlets that I didn’t abandon them.”

“I promise.” We fell into silence. His labored breathing kept pace with my silent sobs. I felt selfish for crying. I wasn’t the one dying. The shaking subsided and I let myself hope he would make it.

“Are you in pain?” I asked.

“No, not much.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Several,” he said. “You can call me Earl.”

“Is that a translation?”

“No, it’s my name. It was my name, in the human years.”

“What did you do?”

“I was in the war, and then I sold insurance in Oklahoma. I don’t remember the details.”

“Did you kill people?”

“I didn’t mean too.”

“I know. Me neither.” I bit my lip.

“I forgive you.”

“Me too.” I lied. I never forgave anyone. Ever.

“I had a wife, I think, and children. But I drank a lot and I remember when I died I was alone.”

I coddled him closer. Earl should’ve spent more time at home. We all have regrets.

“What about his life?” I asked.

“You can’t say my owl name. You don’t have the palate.” He was right.

“I won’t leave you.” He needed reassurance.

“Just tell the owlets I was hunting for food when it happened. You don’t have to say anything—just think it really hard. They’ll understand.” I didn’t believe him, but I wouldn’t disgrace myself further by arguing with the dying. He wheezed and coughed a horrible syrupy cough. “Tell them I didn’t abandon them.”

“Shh, I promise.” I held his warm body close and rocked back and forth in the darkness. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I fell asleep. When I woke, the sun threatened the sky in one pink band stretching across the bottom of the horizon. The world was just beginning. Earl lay cold and dead in my arms.

The initial rites were performed under the sunrise. I laid Earl’s body on the ground and unfolded his wings. Gently, I plucked the feathers from his crown and secured them under a rock. Then, I twisted three of his great flight feathers free from his wings. Using the quill of one of these feathers I gouged into the soft flesh of my arm. Dipping the quill in my own blood I scrolled out my confession on the soft crown feathers. When I was done confessing, done telling my hideous and shameful story, I cast the crown feathers into the wind. Invitations to a funeral spread out across the morning sky. I closed Earl’s eyes and propped him up against a large stone, wrapping his wings around his body.

For three days and nights I sat with Earl waiting for guests that never came. The days were long and still and filled with the emptiness of the plain. I counted my fingers over and over again in as many ways as I could imagine. It was only five ways. One for each finger on one hand. Finally, a herd of antelope crossed in front of us. I counted them too, but they kept stopping to eat and I lost track. It was foolish to try, really. Several of them staggered, heavy with this year’s kids and I wasn’t sure how to count those. If they weren’t born yet did they really need a number? Earl would know, but he was dead and unresponsive. When my mother died it was the same thing. I had all these questions, and I asked her over and over again to reveal something of the truth to me. I grabbed her arms and gave her a good shaking. I pinched her cheeks and pulled her hair, hard. But she lay still in her coffin, revealing nothing. There was so much I had to discover on my own. The herd continued to move across the plain, hypnotizing me with their rhythmic gait. They weaved in and out of the sagebrush and I was lost watching the camouflage of their hides. Before I knew it, they had disappeared out of sight, leaving little behind but a number echoing in my head. I did not shake Earl.

The nights were dark and quiet, disturbed only by the sound of lonely coyotes in the distance, and the occasional rustle of a rabbit through the sagebrush. Lying on my back, I searched the sky for traces of the broken star that had fallen upon me. I tried to keep my promise to Earl. With all of my energy I concentrated on relaying a message to his owlets. In the darkness, alone, and in the center of desolation it is hard to console any fears of abandonment. Everyone abandons someone at some time. It is the way we are made. Think about Earl, I told myself, he was different. He didn’t abandon them. He didn’t have your weakness. My thoughts were clouded with my own guilt and sentiment and I tried and failed over and over again to relay one simple message. I do not think I succeeded. After one more try, I gave up and turned my attention back to the sky. So many stars, twinkling with the same aloof splendor. If they felt any sort of remorse it didn’t show.

On the third day, many guests made their uninvited and inevitable arrival. Maggots emerged from the deep caverns of Earl’s flesh, feeding off the remaining sustenance that exists at the end of life. His soul had left his body with only an unworthy murderer to pay witness. Dropping to my knees, I said a prayer to the ground. Flush against the dirt, my ear stretched into the ground, listening for signs of acceptance. Deeper and deeper I tried to tap into the vibrations of the inner earth. Nothing. No noise escaped. The dirt held sound and silence. Helpless and with nothing left to do, I secured Earl’s flight feathers in my back pocket and drove away.

Grandmother didn’t ask any questions, but she looked me over for a very long time. Her eyes scanned my face searching for familiar grooves and hollows. Her eyes would not register, and no memory could be called upon. For a long while she was at a loss. She circled me, perusing each thread of my dirty clothes and lock of tousled hair for something she might recognize as her own. Then, she smelled me, one deep inhale to determine if I belonged. Years of separation, shame, and travesty lingered on her dull palate. The moment was not without tension. Finally, she accepted my arrival with a quiet and open embrace. Her bones felt frail and small but her arms wrapped around my entire being, from swaddling clothes to the future images of my own death. It was the longest embrace I can remember. There was so much to say and no word to begin with.

She ushered me into a hot bath and I sat in the center of the tub too naked to scrub. The dirt and dried blood on my skin dissolved into the water, turning it a rusty brown. Tiny pebbles sank to the bottom of the tub, prickling the skin on my buttocks. She brought me a cup of hot tea, which contained mostly warm whiskey and honey. Soon, my whole body was filled with warmth, and I felt heavy. I splashed around, rousing my strength, and began scrubbing my dirty skin. I lathered until the soap disappeared, only pieces of the tallow remained embedded underneath my fingernails. The cleansing process was far from over.

I thought about all of the lies I had ever told. Each one boomeranging back to me with added shame and humility. The spoiled milk left out in the sun. The dog that never got fed. The candy that magically appeared in my pockets. The I love yous said without feeling. The way I abandon, no desert, people in their time of need. And the promises to try, really try this time, to get better. I slipped under the water and sank to the bottom. The world above me was quiet and still. Tiny bubbles rose from my lips and popped at the surface. Water dripped from the faucet in deafeningly ticklish drops. My filth coated the sides of the tub and came off when I ran my finger across it. Out of breath, I breached the surface.

She wanted to play a game, and sent me to the cellar to fetch the backgammon set. I lingered. The cellar had always been my favorite part of the house and after years of separation, the reunion was not without nostalgia. I came here to sort through the jars on the shelves, search for old coins and bullets, and scroll my name across the dust on the walls to prove I belonged. The family began in this room from the shale clay of the soil pressed into mud bricks and fixed to the side of the hill. The house was built around this room, each generation bringing another addition of fortune and heartache. Kneeling, I ran my hand over the smooth curves of the wall. My hands used to fit into the subtle depressions, but they had grown much too large and were full of awkward fumbling. The wooden shelves were still standing, sparse after winter. Sturdy and dedicated, I suspected they would outlive me.

The light on the wall hummed and I traced the course of the electric wire down to the floor where it disappeared into the corner of the wall. The last time I visited was for Grandmother’s birthday more than a decade before. She was turning seventy or eighty or one of those old even digits that means nothing other than permanent and irreversible age. She threw a party and we attended, adding dimension to the thrill and gaiety of the event. My mother was not yet sick, but she knew and didn’t bother to mention it. The whole drive she talked of nothing but beautiful things, clean and pure. She laughed too much and tried too hard to be happy. We weren’t happy people. It didn’t suit us. We toiled and suffered and couldn’t expect more out of life. The lightheartedness was nothing but cheap gossamer thrown over a dress of sorrow. I was determined to prove her wrong. We pulled up the drive and the first thing I did was run to the field and lay down in the dirt and let it soak through my clothes and skin and into my bones. Then, at least, I felt honest. There was nothing clean or pure in my entire being. I spent most of the party in this room, dirty, alone, and full of truth. Sighing, I scanned the cellar walls again, there on the shelf sat the backgammon set, worn and dusty.

The hinges of the board let out a loud squeal as Grandmother pulled it open. We peered inside, unsure of what might linger in that box. Nothing but old, stale air. We took deep breaths, basking in the antiquity. The round pieces yellowed and cracked at the surface and the velvet had worn away in patches. She stared at the pieces for a long time, her face blank until I realized she couldn’t see to separate. I tried to imagine what that was like. Lacking empathy and intuition, I had to close my eyes and let my fingers fumble over the board. The board felt scratchy and smooth in a senseless pattern and the pieces cold and foreign. Frustrated, I grappled with both hands to map out the shape and form of the game. My hands were lost and I was alone to navigate the unknown in the dark. I felt a warm hand on mine and opened my eyes. Grandmother’s dull eyes were open wide and she smiled at me. I took a deep breath and set up the board.

She won every game, and I started to think I was being played for a fool. This whole thing had been a ruse to get me to come back here. She could see fine. She wanted something, and when the women in my family want something they can’t just ask for it.

“I have to tell you something,” she said. She was about to come clean.

“Is that why you brought me up here?”

“Yes,” she said. “I want to watch TV, before I can’t.” She pointed to the ancient satellite dish on the lawn. “It doesn’t move anymore, and I’m not strong enough to move it. Look.” She used the remote and turned on the television. Visible through the scattered static were the outlines of a scene. Each movement stretched and blurred the lines together, and the sound came through in garbled choking bursts. “It’s been weeks.”

“Why didn’t you ask someone else?” I asked.

“I’m too proud,” she said.

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Directing the satellite by hand, I watched for Grandmother’s signal from the window. She motioned to the left, and then to the right, and then back to the left but only a little bit. The netted metal bowl was old and rusty and squeaked when I pushed it. It would have been easier if I could see what I was aiming at, but the sky loomed overhead without any labels or gridlines to guide me. Finally, I hit the invisible source. She threw her hands up and clapped. It was nice to be the hero.

We watched like our lives depended on it. During the commercials, I slipped out to fine-tune the reception. She had a deep love for crime dramas, and after many protests to the contrary I gave in. Hour after hour, detectives found bodies and killers and sent them off to justice. Grandmother cheered each time the jury sent someone bad, someone who took a life, to jail. She loved justice. A large lump formed in my throat. In the face of every victim, Earl appeared.

In the late afternoon the wind died down and we sat out on the porch. The valley spread out below us, and was so calm it could have been a postcard or a commercial for laxatives. The air was thin, cold, and dizzying.

“Look for eagles.” Grandmother handed me a pair of binoculars. I put them up to my eyes and peered for a short while. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun shone with a blinding irreverence. I felt trapped in a horrible lie.

“I can’t. My eyes were never that great.” I lied.

“Really? I always thought you could see everything very clearly.”

“I’ve gotten older. Things change.”

“No,” she said. “I’ve gotten older.” I handed back the binoculars, exposing the scabbed wound on my forearm. Her fingers encircled my wrist and she held my arm out, examining my wound. Her grip was like iron. Bending close to my skin, she licked the scab. Her face twisted and she spat and gagged.

“I’m not worthy of eagles,” I confessed. Then, in one torrential flooding of words and tears the dark events of the last few days spilled out of my mouth. She listened intently, without interrupting, and when I was finished we sat in silence, staring at the mountains. Her hand rested on top of mine, cold and leathery. Each wrinkle felt like a great canyon of immeasurable depths. My fingers sized them up, wondering if they could conceal a meteor.

“Well, there’s only one thing to do now,” she said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Eat,” she said.

“I’m not hungry,” I lied.

“It’s not about you. You’ve got to consider the owl.” She was right.

We cleaned out the freezer. I balanced my hipbones on the ledge of the chest. The door was propped open against the wall. Grandmother held my ankles and I dove forward foraging through the icy depths. Deep in the corners and buried under inches of frost I uncovered remnants of the past, wrapped in freezer paper and labeled in permanent marker: Gooseberries ’99, Summer squash ’98, Elk roast ’95, and Cookies ’00. Each time I emerged grasping another wild cocktail of culinary mystery. We spread the loot over the countertops and waited for the thaw. Grandmother preheated the oven and I threw the produce in boiling water on the stove. We cooked and steamed and broiled. The air was thick with the scent of long awakening delights. The moment was precious.

Under her instruction, I added both leaves to the dining room table. It was as large as it could be. She had me set twelve place settings, no more, no less.

“Are we having guests?” I asked.

“Of course not.”

I didn’t argue. I set the best china and the shiniest silver in rigid postures against the knotted oak. Like the last time we parted, this was a bit senseless on her part. The occasion was my mother’s funeral. A small and quiet affair held in the same church where she was baptized. It was the first time I had been there. The pews were old, hard, and completely unforgiving. If you are drunk and happen to pass out in them they do not support your neck. In fact quite the opposite, your head falls so far backward behind your body that you wake up terrified it has fallen off. You don’t know how to reconnect with yourself and you struggle to tell your brain to tell your neck to tell your stomach to move, ever so gently. The wires are crossed and the only sound you can make is a loud choking gasp that echoes through your nose and sounds like a laugh. After one such noise, I felt a swift and sharp pain on my cheek. Grandmother stood in front of me, her hand shaking and hanging in the air. The outline of her fingers flushed on my cheek. She never understood what it was like to live with someone who wouldn’t believe they were dying. I should have thanked her. After that I had total control. I told my body to stand, and, one leg at a time, I walked out the door. I straightened the last fork. The table looked regal and proper and lonely.

Grandmother scurried around the table heaving generous portions of food on each of the plates. She brought each dish around to each setting, and carefully ladled the contents. Concerned with equal amounts, she kept glancing back and forth from plate to plate. Her eyes were slow to focus and her brow furled in confused frustration. She looked lost.

“Help me,” she said. I stood and joined her. She carried the dish and I scooped out equal portions. We took each dish around in that fashion, until everything was distributed neatly and fairly. By the time I reached my plate to begin eating I was exhausted. That didn’t stop me from competing. The first clink of the fork inspired in me an insatiable urge to eat everything more and faster. Grandmother returned the challenge. Moving from plate to plate we rounded the table. We ate like two people at the end of time who hate time and love sadness. We ate the past, the present, and the future. We ate it in horrible gulps and slurps. We burped and shoveled, groaned and loosened our pants, but we did not give up. For the first time in ten years we were together. In every bite, we connected. We chewed away sorrow, pain, and regret and when we were done we found ourselves completely empty and immobile.

“You look good.” She broke the silence.

“Even now?” I clutched my stomach.

“Even better.”

“I’m sorry you’re going blind.”

“Sometimes I think I should have seen it coming.”

“How?”

“With my heart.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Can you move?” she asked.

“Barely.”

“Good. You have one thing left to do. It should be kind of difficult.” She had always been honest. I had to give her that.

Standing near the table and she loaded my arms with the half eaten plates. Plate after wobbly plate, until I couldn’t see over the top of the load. She whistled as she walked in front of me and I followed the sound. My feet moved over the ground with a gentle padding that was more of a feeling than a step. My feet asked the ground for permission. I did not tread. I did not trudge.

We walked to the front of the house and laid the plates on the ground in a large circle. Puzzled, I studied the scene. Large, uneaten portions of food against shiny porcelain against grass against stone against earth. I stood in the center like some ill-prepared and non-believing priestess performing rites to a religion in a lost language to a lost people. I looked to her for guidance, but she was gone. I dug the feathers from my pocket and placed them in the center of the circle. Guilt tugged at my heavy heart. I closed my eyes and saw Earl, shivering in his last moments. A warm tear slid down my nose. Inaudible rhythms swelled in the air around me, and the pressure in the air crushed against my bones. My feet began to move one at a time, stepping, hopping, and sliding. I danced myself into a wild frenzy, reckless, careless, and punctuated. Catch me if you can stop my feet and chain my arms to my body. I was weightless, twirling and shuffling, throwing my head back and opening my mouth to the sky. Hideous laughter bellowed out from my insides and ripped its way across the plain. The ritual concluded when my knees smashed into the dirt and I could no longer stand.

Exhausted, I managed to drag my weary bones to the couch where I fell into a heavy slumber. The night was hollow and shallow, and I awoke in blackness to the echoes of owls hooting and wings beating in the air. Field mice and rabbits screamed their last cries. The sound paralyzed me. Wooden and terrified, I stared at the closed door of Grandmother’s bedroom, willing it open. I tried the technique I had learned with Earl’s owlets. Nothing. I would have to go it alone.

How many rabbits screamed? How many field mice squeaked? The questions bubbled up and I began to count again. It was too dark for my eyes. I had to rely on my ears to really listen for the struggle—for that inevitable hush that extinguishes life. Again, I lost track. There were simply too many, another senseless and futile attempt. I kept listening, with my whole body letting the sound crawl into every fold of skin until I was consumed.

In every cry, I imagined myself scooped up in those talons, the claws of an owl digging into my flesh and lifting me into the air. The ground passed by underneath and obscured in darkness. The sturdy hold of the owl ensured that I would not fall, but I could not enjoy the flight. Without control, there were too many unknowns. When the owl came to rest, I turned over and laid eyes on my captor. It was Earl, calm and hungry. He plunged his beak deep into the flesh of my arms and legs. In one shake he ripped them free of their sockets. Bones and tendons snapped like dry twigs. The limbs were swallowed whole, in one undulation as I watched. With just one thing left, I urged him on. Finish it! His beak crushed through the bones in my chest straight for my heart. This was the moment of change. The moment of egress. I imagined the crash, the moment of impact when Earl’s body ricocheted from my windshield. There in the hollows of Earl’s eyes I dove deeper, past my own guilty reflection and back to my mother’s side. I held her hand and laid my head on her still chest. We were quiet and perfect and calm. We were at the end of questions. The wind stirred and I awoke from my reverie. My limbs were intact and my heart still beat.

I moved to the window, staring out into the darkness and the howling wind. One of Earl’s feathers had been pitched into the air and hovered in front of the window, aglow in the starlight. Reaching out, the cold glass felt wet against my palm. Goodbye, I mouthed. The feather disappeared into the night.

At dawn, I emerged to survey the wreckage. One porcelain plate had been lost in the struggle, split down the middle. A blood pool began in the center of the plate and trailed off toward the trees. I walked the perimeter. A few yards away and in the middle boughs of a lone pine tree, I found the scraps of the carnage. There, among the prickly needles lay the remains of several field mice and rabbits. I felt oddly close to them. After the owls had eaten they stopped here in this tree to digest before their insides turned out and they vomited the useless fur and bones. This could have been my fate, my awkward bones easily scattered in the limbs of this tree. A femur, an ulna, a pelvic girdle purged in decorative ornamentation. They feasted here all night, a constant food source a short flight away. I covered my mouth with my hand and climbed down. Earl’s owlets would live. One by one, I picked up the plates and stacked them in my arms. Surveying the ground one last time, I looked for Earl’s feathers. All trace of them had vanished in the night.

Later that afternoon Grandmother and I drank tea on the porch. It was hot, bitter, and purple in color. It tasted awful, but I could feel it restoring my lost vitality. My chair was uncomfortable and I squirmed. The plastic squeaked under my rump and Grandmother looked at me, annoyed. I wrestled with the thought of asking her or letting things go unsaid. Never being much for subtlety, I opened my mouth.

“What about the mice and rabbits?” I asked.

She sighed and looked over the plain.

“There will always be innocents. You’ll have to get used to it.” She looked at me in a manner that said she wasn’t going to offer any more explanation. She was a woman of few words, and many more complicated actions.

After some time had passed and the sun reached the right place in the sky, she handed me the binoculars.

“Look for eagles.”

Peering through the lenses, I scanned the horizon in all directions. The sky was a perfect blue. A branch of sagebrush fluttered in the breeze. Grandmother looked bored and disappointed. I took a deep breath and gave it one more try. Tomorrow, I had to make my lonely journey back across the ‘Y’. This was the end. I stared at blue so long I thought I might be calm for the rest of my life. Finally, out of the corner of my eye I saw the great flapping of a wing. A smooth brown eagle soared through the air, gliding with outstretched wings and a weightless grace. I adjusted the focus and handed the binoculars to Grandmother. She stared through the lenses for a long while. When she was finished she put them down. Once again used to its subtle grooves and hollows, she stared at my face, and smiled. It was the last eagle she ever saw.

Jocelyn Eide is a graduate of the University of Montana and works as a freelance copywriter in Brooklyn, NY.

© 2009 prickofthespindle.com