A special morning at the park.

This morning was the sort of morning that poets dream about. It was cool, almost crisp, and clear. There was a light fog coming from the heavy dew on the grass. The stars were bright, so much so that you felt you could see into the future with them. There was the smell of late blooming flowers, so sweet it would make your teeth hurt to smell them. Soon, the sun started to lighten the sky and the birds awoke to sing the day awake. First the cardinals, then the jays and grackles. Then, as if on cue, all sorts started calling, announcing to the world that they were still alive. The geese and ducks glided across the surface of the calm water, fluffing their feathers and dipping their heads in the wet mirror that reflected and moved under them.
The sun crested above the tree line and colors exploded across the land B and I stood on. The squirrels, their cheeks stuffed with pecans and walnuts, ran up and down the trees, stowing them for the winter that is sure to come before long. The cool air is strong in our lungs. That slobbering beast beside me and I sat watching, peacefully, as the morning rituals of the those park animals took place.
We completed several revolutions of the parks' trail and, grudgingly, set about a very round-about way to the house were we sleep. While walking along the river to exit the park I noticed a very large bird swooping in to land on a branch. It was an unusual color that I noticed to be the dappling of a juvenile but had the four and a half foot wingspan of a bird a great deal larger than the native hawks. Curious, I dug out my binoculars and had a much closer gaze at the details of the youngster. As he, or she, was only 40 feet away or so, I had a nice look. A nice, long look. I watched as it flew off after a duck, an adult duck that looked so small next to it. Then another duck, and another. It hunted with the awkwardness of youth, but persistence of an adult. I took out my handy little bird book, the one with the photos, not drawings, of the birds. Sure enough it was in there, big as as the sun that rose only an hour before, a juvenile bald eagle! Right here in Stephenville at the city park. Possibly, likely, an early migrator to the North. Old enough to be on its own, young enough to not yet have found a mate. In any event, beautiful, like the rest of the morning spent with my constant companion, Bruno.