By Walt Whitman
Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,)
Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles,
The rushing amorous contact high in space together,
The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel,
Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling,
In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling,
Till o'er the river pois'd, the twain yet one, a moment's lull,
A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing,
Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight,
She hers, he his, pursuing.
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It rained the entire day on Thursday -- it was lightest when we took a walk in the afternoon, yet we still wore waterproof pants, shoes, hats, and gloves -- so we had a fairly quiet day. I had a bunch of work to get done and the cats made demands every time the heated blankets went off, so that took up most of the morning.
My Thursday night chat group hung out for a couple of hours in the evening, after which I watched the season finale of Reacher, which was as violent and as preposterous as the rest of the season, and now we're watching the White Collar where they find the Nazi treasure. Sammamish Lake State Park animals and sights in winter:
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