Aki trots ahead of me on an expansive meadow. Her tiny tracks in the snow could have been left by something wild. Spring is finally winning its annual battle with winter. To be fair, the sun is the main agent of change. Its rays warm the trunks of the meadow’s pines, which radiate heat to melt the surrounding snow, forming concave-shaped pots for each tree.
Aki’s path parallels that of a deer now hiding in clump of trees. It must be cheering on the sun. I’m cheering on an eagle that glides above the meadow. It sings as it circles. I’ve never heard the song before. It’s their time for mating. Maybe this guy is looking for some action.
This would be a perfect place to watch eagles mate. Nothing would block our view of them locking talons and tumbling towards the meadow as they do their business. They almost always break their embrace before hitting the ground. My eagle stops singing, adjusts its meter-long wings, and glides east. Without even one wing flap it holds its angle of descent as if attached to a flying fox (zip line). I feel a warm flutter of infatuation. Aki, am I crushing on an eagle? The little dog acts like my ridiculous question is not worthy of a response.
Just before we leave the meadow, I pick bog cranberries from a snowless patch of muskeg. Like the deer and the eagle, the berries survived a very snowy winter. Wondering if they will be sweeter for it, I pop them into my mouth. But winter’s bitterness has replaced their autumn sweetness.