The Eagle Sang

How is it that wild creatures seem to sense our feelings, our kind intentions, and respond to them in unusual and subtle ways? If we begin to pay attention to the stories they have to tell us, we may find some of our long lost senses and instincts, and begin to understand our magnificent wild friends.

When Elaine and I carried the crate with the wounded bald eagle into the room and I opened the door, I knew a rough night was ahead of me. The magnificent bird had her wing twisted and her blood-stained feathers trailed the floor of the cage.

For some reason this bird touched my soul immediately. She was never given a name; she has become the unknown soldier who symbolized the hundreds of thousands of the past, that had died at the hands and deeds of man. She roused memories of the many eagles, falcons, hawks and owls I had cared for in the past. She reminded me of untold nights spent with so many that had needed me.

She offered little resistance to being handled. Humbly, both of us worked to clean the horrible wounds and flush out the dirt, sand and foreign objects. The broken bones had to be repositioned under the skin so that they would survive until surgery. There was a sense of anticipation, of urgent care for a fatal injury, to save the bird that was resting on the table, surrounded by blankets and towels. We then immobilized the damaged wing. Our work was completed.

It was time to meet her and look into those magnificent saffron eyes. I lifted the towel that had hooded her head. I wanted to welcome her and let her know that she was safe. All birds are greeted here in this way. She allowed the comfort of my hands that gently stroked her beautiful white head. She closed her eyes in contentment. She understood.

We placed her carefully into a cage on soft blankets and towels, where she finally was able to rest. Later, she gratefully accepted a cool and comforting drink. For the next six hours I remained with her.

Many times during my vigil, I walked on quiet soles to her room and observed her breathing. I offered her more water to drink, I re-adjusted her blankets and knelt in front of her cage, or remained next to her, and stroked that majestic white head.

Long before I would have given up hope, she knew her final hour had come. She took her fate with grace and dignity. She accepted the care and love I provided for her. A lesson to be learned for the future.

I think she flew into a power line and took a long, fatal fall towards the frozen, hard earth. In my mind I relived her horrors. She must have plummeted to the ground like a rock. Did the fall break her bones, or was it the invisible, icy steel wire?

Next to her bed, in another cage stood another beautiful Bald Eagle quietly on a perch. He knew about his room mate’s fate. Why is it that eagles just know?

In another cage in this room was a Golden Eagle, who also knew. Her huge, gentle brown eyes told me so. I later named her Melody. In my little clinic I sometimes experience the watchful eyes of other birds while I do my work. I found myself apologizing to the birds about the condition of their new comrade and assured them in silent tongue that I am doing the best I can.

Something mysterious and eerie began to happen. The Golden Eagle began to sing in soft, almost whispering notes. For the next six hours, while I humbly cared for her injured friend, the Golden continued to sing her quiet, melodious song. Was it a lullaby for a suffering soul?

After midnight the wounded bird moved and struggled. I rushed to her cage. She fought as Father Death began to claim his toll. I took her in my arms to help and comfort her, when she took her last breath. I buried my face in her fragrant feathers and my tears pearled off her white head.

At the last I wanted to comfort her spirit and honor her life. I returned her body into her soft warm bed. Her lifeless head rested on the blanket. I stroked her satin black feathers. Her eyes were closed.

Somewhere, somehow, this eagle flew again in the golden sunshine of a green day and touched the face of God. With her, the many I had helped and the many I had lost soared from deep blue canyons to white, cool clouds, beyond the sky, into the brilliant sun and found life once again.

And my eagle sang no more.

January 23, 1998
Sigrid Noll Ueblacker

Updated by Elke on September 8, 2005 10:43 PM