Love Takes Flight

What’s on my mind? Small towns are not exempt from the dangers of an increasingly dangerous world. 

Vigilance is paramount. Hazards abound - even on the tranquil island we call home. Oh, sure ... The place seems safe enough. Our village (that pretends to be a town) has a single traffic light. Parking is free. The shops are shuttered by 6. The streets are empty by 8. Behind that guise of serenity, peril lurks.

Casual visitors never see the dark underbelly of this place. Locals risk getting bonked (if you’ll excuse the expression) by a falling screw (ditto) from the four-level retirement home now under construction. 

Quail run around, wild-eyed and unfettered. Deer munch gardens and hedges, unrestrained. Rabbits - don’t even start me on the rabbits. Let’s just say they’ve never been chew-chew trained. 

Long ago, in a land far, far away, I worked for a Big City newspaper. Today, I loaf around (half a loaf is better than none) drooling and staring into space. The point? A reader once phoned with a bit of advice I’ll never forget: “Stop shooting at pigeons ... There are eagles in the sky!” On several levels, he was right then and is right, today.

Bald eagles ride the hot air above our village’s town hall. Formidable, strong, heavy birds, they’re quick to swoop and quick to snatch their prey (salmon, toy poodles, elderly aunts queued up for a space in the retirement home), flying off before anyone can stop them. 

In this calm, quiet little village of masked menaces and threats, something shocking occurred last week. A wildlife photographer was innocently snapping shots of dozens of eagles when what should happen? Have patience and I’ll tell you. 

The photographer described the birds as in a “mating frenzy.” In the strictly scientific, ornithological terms with which I am familiar, they were bonking and screwing in the sky.  

As the photographer explained it: “They’re looking for mates for life. They will lock their talons ... It’s all about trust. They trust each other to let go before they hit the ground.” She described this “cartwheeling” as a mating ritual similar to “a wedding ceremony.” 

She watched two of the many eagles cartwheel, cartwheel, cartwheel ... Locked in love, neither let go. Diving, dropping, hurtling to earth, serious injury was likely; death, likelier. So where did they land? Right in the photographer’s lap. 

She screamed. They scratched. She fled. They flew. 

If you’ve ever considered visiting a quiet little island in the Salish Sea, fuhgeddaboudit. This place is far too dangerous.

© Nicole Parton, 2019