Did you know, there were eagles at St. Lawrence when I was young.
Or hawks, or whatever. Ornithology is not my forté.
But they always fascinated me.

Eagles, who fell from their nests in those high trees into the sky. And they were always silent. I never heard them make a sound. Maybe I was too far away.
Silent silent grace. It was like they never moved. Like they were carved in place.
I think about them often. They are a part of my childhood I will always carry around with me.
I remember lying on the grass one day watching them fly, silhouetted against an impossibly blue sky, the kind of sky you get just before the end of summer, with cirrus clouds that look like feathers.
I could smell dry dusty soil, and dying grass.
If I squinted just a little, I could block out the buildings and the lamp-posts, and the water tank just outside school on the other side of the road, and even the trees. And then I could pretend that I was an eagle too.
And that I could fly.
And that I would live forever.
And that I would never fall from grace.