SOAR WITH THE EAGLES
They came every year to feast on the migrating Salmon, roosting
high in the trees
along the banks of the Squamish River, Brackendale where I was born.
We watched them with my sister, soaring above our heads then swooping down
above the water to pick out a fat salmon. How I wished I could fly. One
had a broken wing!
Hobbling along the riverbank scrounging for scraps left behind. As the
days went by she got
weaker and soon we were able to get close; trying to help. We picked up
the scraps and took
them near her. I remember her eyes, I remember the pain! I remember our
tears! She tried
to fly but could not get off the ground. Time went by , the salmon stopped
coming and slowly
the eagles begin to leave. She tried again and again until exhausted. The
shrill cry of her mate
flying above, still rings in my ear. Her mate was the last one to leave.
Then she gave up.
One good wing spread out, she laid quietly among the rocks. Her head rested
on a log looking at
the sky. Two little Indians, two little girls; we sat on a log and cried.
During the night the Fox
got her. We buried the feathers and prayed to the Creator to let her fly
again. Now my wing is
broken. When is my Fox coming?