Tell
Tell how you found an eagle feather that summer in a midden near Atlin, that old mining town by a pristine lake in northern British Columbia. Tell how ravens and eagles attend this midden, engaged in constant sifting of humans' cast off fish-bones, half-eaten meals in paper boxes, leftovers and waste: all the used up, unwanted things piled up over years or centuries. Still Raven finds treasures there; Eagle scans the detritus for mice, ruffles his feathers, grooms himself calmly for the climbing, diving strike. A downy feather, plucked by his own beak from his ruffled breast, drifts to earth. We scavenger humans poke also among the rubbish: a small clear glass bottle a broken toy a camp chair a single grey-white feather... Tell how, the day you left Atlin, that young eagle found you, flew across the road in front of your car, turned and paced you at eye level before veering and rising aloft, saying: Travel swiftly with my vision feather! be worthy of my gift, take it with you in ...