I was told to not count
the bald eagles this year.
Not the ones in Squamish
or the ones on the north tip
of Mayne Island
overlooking Active Pass.

I was told that this year
I was to stay away from numbersaltogether.
That if I counted
I’d come close to coming up
with a finite number.
And that doing so
would cause problems,
  like don’t EVER discern the9 millionth name of God
  or time—all time—will expire.
They were nebulous, indefinableproblems
that would nevertheless have direconsequences
for my relationship with the baldeagles
for all time to come.

I doubted the wisdom.
I felt no rational pull
to heed this mildly annoying constraint.
Because in the past
the count was part of what broughtme
into the eagles’ domain
  of peace
  and strength
  and integrity
  and authority
    granted in fairnessand ecological balance.

And I felt no compulsion
to change what had always been
the tradition of autumn communing
that always centred and groundedme
as the arctic outflow winds
flew down the Squamish river valley
to rip the last leaves off the trees
in Brackendale
while we all stood on the dyke
amongst the few with clipboards
and the proper training 
that allows them to not double ormiscount.

But as I made my plans
to head up Howe Sound to the count,
followed by a weekend trip overto the island
so I could stand on the port deckof the ferry
remaining still
looking keenly
at the bald eagles
on the south side of Active Pass
as they peered back at…not reallyme,
but the accumulation of events
in their immense field of vision…
but, see, as I made these plans,
there emerged a definite sense offoreboding
and imminent loss of something intangible
but oh so valuable.

So the foreboding caused me to acquirefaith,
a perverse kind of fear-based faith,
a faith that bounded my plans,
  but still didn’t over-rulethem.
Because I went to Brackendale
and stood on the dyke
and felt the power
that the weighty numbers of eaglesemanated
and I actively tried to not count.
I even stood far far away from
  the folks with the clipboards
  lest they taint my effort.

But when the wind blew right,
  I’d still sometimes heara clipboard person
  explaining the mechanicsof the count to a child.
And when I tried to block out theirsounds
  I’d look back into the leaflesstrees in the river
  to re-focus on the perchedbirds.
And I swear to you now
  that every time I heard clipboardboy speak a number
  I saw one eagle vanish fromthe corner of my eye,
  inciting in me a minor paniceach time
  until I found that only closingmy eyes
  seemed to stop their disappearances.

So when I left and sailed throughActive Pass
  I reveled in the absence
  of clipboards.
 

Copyright 2002, Stephen Buckley
10.16.02, 1130pm - 10.23.02, 1030pm