Eagles have been playing in my backyard all winter. They dip and swoop between the trees and under the small suspension bridge that links us to the island, fishing in the icy channel between. Over time I have grown to love these creatures. As I watch them, I am reminded of one of our first encounters a few years ago.

It was a late summer day, one of those gloriously long days when friends visit and neighbors mingle between sun porches and screen houses. Our then-neighbors, Ray and Marjorie Evans, were hosting some of their family and acting as surrogate hosts to our friend from the city, who had arrived before us. We were assembled in their screen gazebo on the river bank just below the Big Eddy. My city friend, made at home by the Evans’ easy hospitality, faced the river as she marveled at the beauty of this simple setting, and began to let her New York-bred vigilance melt away.

Suddenly, a huge package landed with a thump on the lawn, only feet away from the guests. My friend thought, at first, that someone had torpedoed a steak at us from the distant road. “Hey, Ray,” she called, “Someone sent you a present.” Investigating, he found a large, dead fish lying on the ground, a good thirty feet above the river. Clearly this fish had not found its way unassisted. Looking up, Ray saw its previous owner staring down at him from a high branch. The eagle had dropped his lunch!

It must be hard to keep one’s balance on a tender branch, weighing 30 pounds or more, six feet of wing tucked in at your side, with only a razor-sharp beak to slice your lunch. We often see the eagles fishing and, with binoculars, watch as they eat their catch, barely balancing as they hold it steady with their huge talons and tear it into bite-sized pieces. It is the only time they look at all awkward and I feel a mild embarrassment for them. They seem to want to get this messy business over with and soar again.

I have come to recognize the juvenile eagles now, and think I can tell a two year-old from a three or four year-old by the changing colors of their broad heads and tail feathers. We often see a pair of bald elders sitting together, and last autumn we watched as they engaged in activity that looked very much like nest building. Though we know their preference is for higher ground, and away from people, their actions kept us guessing for weeks. One eagle picked up sticks from the island and tucked them in an angled branch as the other squawked orders from her perch nearby. Eventually, the activity ceased. Perhaps they found another piece of real estate with more privacy.

I have a favorite eagle, or I think I do. It is known in my family as “Moms eagle.” She (I am guessing) has a bright head and a full, white flash of tail and she often sits outside my window on a tree branch equal to the height of my upstairs bedroom. When I see her I feel right and gifted and hopeful. I appreciate her elegant swoops, often calling out my encouragement. “You go, girl,” I tell her. The sight of her maneuvering those huge wings between the many branches makes me feel my own, sometimes awkward, strides may also be possible.