A spot winged bald eagle flew from my running this morning. From mist draped trees and sky, it came from over my head. It was the first time I’ve seen a bald eagle—and it was like seeing prayer embodied. Its wing span was five feet wide and it coasted slow as waiting across still water. It flew with the confidence of creation. I never knew wings until then. I never knew wings that large could carry a body across the river. The sight of it stilled my legs and I gasped at a world where nothing but fog and a sole eagle exist. And I gasped at the Island gone white with fog and speckled eagle feathers, the Island wisping its fingers across my throat, the Island laying its voice against my face. The grass tented with cob webs, the shrubs triangled with cob webs, the trees spooling down cob web necklaces for my running to catch and my halting wonder to feel the weight of. Cob web strands must weigh as much as me and eagles must be as light as God.