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Page 14 · column 4 of 6 · from the scan, no model involved
It was 9:45 a.m., Thursday morning, last. I was on my way to the doctor for the umpteenth time for my ailing backbone. Up the long straightaway from the Jordan River, approaching Herbert Foster’s old home place, sitting in the top of the tallest poplar tree in the front yard was the most beautiful, mature bald eagle I have ever seen. He was simply majestic.
He looked almost too big to be sitting in the top of the tree. Honestly, I know he wasn’t, but he looked like he was 3 feet tall. From the curve of the shoulder (do birds have shoulders?) to the top of his head, he was glistening white. The sun was shining, and the backdrop was a blue sky. I wanted a camera, some binoculars or someone else in the car with me to share the sight of that glorious bird.
I have seen eagles in Florida, in Canada, on the lower Potomac and other places,, including Rappahannock, but this one just took my breath away. And, at that moment, I could no longer side with one of the great men who was around at the birth of this nation, Beryamin Franklin, who wanted the wild turkey to be the new
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