An ending

As we set up our campsite at isolated springs, we see a dark shape at the base of a tree. It could be a garbage bag filled to plumpness, except few people ever come here.

As we get closer it’s not plastic we see but feathers, with a head resting awkwardly.
It’s an eagle. I’m used to seeing this bird floating high overhead or flying off haughtily from road-kill with its huge, dark wings.

Now it’s curled up on the ground. My friend picks it up and gently unfolds it. The body isn’t stiff yet: the bird died today, as we were driving here.

My friend puts one hand under its breast – black, which means it was at least 10 years old – and with his other hand pulls a wing above his head. The breadth of the wings, hanging beside his height, is easily longer than his six feet. I try this too, can barely hold the weight.

We arrange the head, with its imperious beak; the sturdy body; the wings, that look like they belong on a flying horse; the thick-spined black and brown feathers, a foot or more long, on the ground, to take photos. This dark, beautiful creature does not look right on the ground.

This bird would normally only tread the earth to pick at dead roos, other animals. It should be way above us. A great black shape with a distinctive wedge of tail which means death to the animals scurrying below.

Now it is dead, and the world seems somehow tipped upside down. Finally my friend finds a broken leg. The bird must’ve crashed into the tree or the ground as it zoomed down on a rabbit or some other animal, it’s not unusual, he says

He folds the eagle back up and returns it to the base of the tree. But what has opened in me, as I surveyed this dead bird, I can’t close, and walk around with the eyes of an eagle as it lands on death.