Yesterday morning, Keith opened the shutter to the dam and froze midway. A dark silhouette perched on the weathered branch in the middle of the water. He grabbed the binoculars, eyes widening, and shouted for me to hurry.
There he was—a juvenile fish eagle, bathed in the golden hues of the early morning sun. He stretched to his full length, regal yet untamed, surveying the dam’s mirror-like surface. The barbel, carp, and bass stirred below, oblivious to the young king above.
Unlike the striking white head of an adult, his plumage was a tapestry of mottled brown and cream. The distinctive white cross on his back, a telltale sign of his lineage, was beginning to emerge. His wings fanned out, catching the light, revealing a breathtaking pattern of dark flight feathers edged in gold.
Keith held his breath, camera poised. The juvenile was unfazed, his sharp gaze locking onto something unseen, absorbing the world in quiet confidence. In that moment, he was no fledgling—he was a ruler in the making.
Then, in a blink, he was gone. A powerful push of his wings sent him soaring, too quick for Keith to capture the takeoff. The shutter clicked a fraction too late.
Not a cry, not a sound—just the silent promise of return. He’s upped the bar, and now, we wait… watching this space, literally and figuratively, with bated breath.
