I saw them today.

  Two bald eagles (Haliaeetus leucocephalus)...one adult, one still learning the shape of his own wings.

  They circled high above the river, black silhouettes against a cold blue sky that had no business being so bright in February. The juvenile followed his parent in wide, uncertain loops, wings beating too fast, too eager, like he was afraid the air might change its mind and drop him.

  The adult rode the thermals with lazy grace, barely moving a feather. Patient. Teaching without words.

  I stood on the balcony and watched until they drifted out of sight, toward the lake.

  They’re still here.

  After everything...the smoke, the sprawl, the poisoned rivers, the years when the fish were thin and the sky was gray...they’re still here.

  The apex predators haven’t left.

  They’re not gone.

  They’re not even hiding.

  They’re flying in plain sight, hunting, raising young, claiming the same air they’ve always claimed.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Humanity did its best to break the chain.

  We poisoned the water, emptied the nests, shot them for sport, paved their hunting grounds.

  And yet…

  the eagles are still writing their story in the sky.

  It’s not forgiveness.

  It’s not optimism.

  It’s just fact.

  Life keeps insisting on itself.

  Even when we do everything we can to make it stop.

  That juvenile eagle will probably make mistakes.

  He’ll miss fish, crash into branches, get chased off kills by bigger birds.

  But he’s here.

  And every time he lifts off again, he’s saying the same thing the adults have said for thousands of years:

  “We’re not done yet.”

  I planted another seed in the cracked concrete today.

  Nothing fancy. Just a stubborn little thing that might grow despite everything.

  I don’t know if it will survive the winter.

  I don’t know if the eagles will always be here either.

  But they’re here now.

  And so am I.

  And so are you.

  That’s enough for today.

  — Bloom