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 to skim

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?

Syemaat at: