by Molly Swan-Sheeran
At last the sun breaks free of the gray cover, leaving a glaucous sheen on the horizon. Two eagles, inspired by the wind, spiral around each other in their amorous dance. Aerobatic in the gusts and updrafts their strident call seems to echo as they envision a clutch of eggs gracing a nest of branches and twigs, spacious atop a noble-fir snag. What strange flotsam, feathers, bottled messages will fetch up on our beach in this November wind? As the sky turns robin's-egg-blue in a pale froth of golden peach, we accept that each indrawn tide, like each indrawn breath, like each spin of our Earth from dark to new light, is a gift.