July 29: "You Are Standing at the Edge of the Woods," Best Friends from High School, Bald Eagle

Mary Oliver lives with mystery . . .

You Are Standing at the Edge

of the Woods

by:  Mary Oliver

You are standing at the edge of the woods

at twilight

when something begins

to sing, like a waterfall

pouring down

through the leaves.  It is

the thrush.

And you are just

sinking down into your thoughts,

taking in

the sweetness of it--those chords,

those pursed twirls--when you hear

out of the same twilight

the wildest red outcry.  It pitches itself

forward, it flails and scabs

all the surrounding space with such authority

you can't tell

whether it is crying out on the 

scarp of victory, with its hooked foot

dabbed into some creature that now

with snapped spine

lies on the earth--or whether

it is such a struck body itself, saying

goodbye.

The thrush

is silent then, or perhaps

has flown away.

The dark grows darker.

The moon,

in its shining white blouse,

rises.

And whatever that wild cry was

it will always remain a mystery

you have to go home now and live with,

sometimes with the ease of music, and sometimes in silence,

for the rest of your life.

Oliver never has a problem living with mystery.  So much of what she writes is about encountering the unexplained in the forest and simply accepting it without need for explanation or answer.  She hears the thrush, which she identifies immediately, and then she hears something else, a wild red outcry, that leaves her poetically breathless and confounded.

I had a Mary Oliver moment like this tonight.  My family and I had dinner with one of my best friends from high school who is visiting from Florida.  Prior to meeting up with my friend, my wife and I decided to go for a walk because we had some time to kill.  So, I drove to Lake Superior, and we walked along a breakwall jutting out into a sort of cove..

The evening was blue and sunny, and the waves sparked with light.  As my wife and I headed back toward shore, we saw a bald eagle dive down and snatch a large fish from the water.  The fish batted and squirmed in the eagle's talons for a few seconds.  It was magnificent to see.

The eagle landed on the breakwall about 30 feet or so away from us.  It started digging into its dinner with claws and beak while a particularly persistent seagull circled overhead, perhaps waiting for sloppy seconds.  After a couple minutes of snacking, the eagle snatched up its meal and pounded back into flight for a minute or so.  Then it landed on the breakwall again.  The seagull kept circling and screaming, not venturing close.

Finally, the eagle snatched the fish in its talons and took off again.  This time, it headed toward land.  It ended up abandoning the fish carcass on the shore and perched near the top of a tree.  It sat there, cocking its head, hunching its back, watching the small crowd of people gathering beneath it, like some member of the royal family posing for pictures.

It was a fully mature eagle, as its head was white as the North Pole.  And it didn't seem skittish, despite all the humans stupidly standing below, taking pictures and chattering with excitement.  That's what mystery does--it forces us to stop whatever we're doing and take note.

And I took note, after a long and tiring day of church and schoolwork.  

Saint Marty imagines the eagle is still sitting in that tree right now, its crown glowing like a piece of misplaced moonlight in the dusky air.