One week ago, Keith built a makeshift perch in the middle of the dam on our doorstep in Tulbagh, hoping—dreaming—that the resident fish eagles, often seen on distant telephone poles, would claim it as their throne. With the perfect vantage point from our living room, the camera was ready.
Day after day, we watched and waited. Nothing.
Then, on the morning of March 15, 2025, the air shifted. Just after the full moon’s lunar eclipse, we sat quietly, curtains drawn, when we heard it—that unmistakable, goosebump-inducing call.
A fish eagle’s cry is a sound that stops time. It echoes through the valley like an ancient promise.
This time, it was closer.
Keith, moving as if in a dream, pulled the curtain aside. He nearly fainted. So did I.
There, perched like a king surveying his kingdom, sat Knobby. His sharp eyes pierced the water’s surface, his regal frame framed against the dam’s reflection. The perch Keith had built, the dream we had whispered into the wind—he had claimed it.
For us, this was more than a lucky sighting. It was a full-circle moment, woven into the very fabric of how we found this place. When we first laid eyes on this home, it was framed in a rainbow—an unmistakable sign that this was meant to be.
Now, Knobby, an eagle who had always been here but never this close, had finally come home too.
As I write this, he (or his mate) calls from the telephone pole once more, teasing us with the possibility of another landing. The dam’s summer waters recede, revealing an easy feast of barbel, bass, and carp. Perhaps, just as we wait for him, he waits for the perfect moment to return.
And so, we remain perched as well—ready to capture the next perfect landing.
Because when the sky speaks, we listen.
