Late winter noon: slack tide, brilliant sun flashing off the water.

An eagle glides in lazy circles above the Strait, around and around, spiraling ever higher, its grace dissolving into a speck, until it melds with the bright blue sky.

I know it’s there, ascending, but my eyes can no longer distinguish the shape from its element—bird and air are one.

I pull ever-larger volumes of this air into my lungs, as if I might draw into my own body some of this alchemy. As if I might magically lift off from earth with as much ease, as if I might soar as high and also vanish into rarefied strata of light and prayer.

As if I, too, might become sky blue.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What heights do you aim for today?
• What transformation do you seek?
• What power of eagle do you wish to emulate?

Fly with other birds here.