Let’s soar into December

 Between yesterday and today, I've seen three bald eagles in various and sundry air spaces in our neck of the woods. Apparently, not all eagles got the memo about overwintering along  the Mississippi river down around Wabasha. Before I moved to Minnesota from Massachusetts I had never seen an eagle in the wild. Now they're not commonplace, but neither are sightings rare. Despite so many appearances to the contrary, it’s nice to see some things are getting better.

bald eagle, soaring

Photo by J. Harrington

I won’t bore you with the details, but over the past week I’ve been learning that our world is designed for big diesel engines that burn lots of fuel, not for the little 3 cylinder diesel in my John Deere that has about a 5 gallon fuel tank. Diesel fuel stabilizer is designed so that 1 ounce treats 10 gallons or 30 gallons, depending on the  brand. Devices that measure less than an ounce are mostly calibrated in milliliters or teaspoons. Yes, I know it’s possible to convert to ounces, but the results aren’t always readily measurable either. We just spent several hundred dollars because the tractor diesel fuel tank had what looked like algae growing in it, plugging the fuel flow. I’m working on avoiding a repeat of that situation. Today that work was conducted, in part, in wind chills of 10 or less. Sigh.

Tomorrow is the first of December. Today is the last day of Native American Heritage month. In case you  hadn’t noticed, each poem we’ve shared this month was written by a Native American poet. Tomorrow we will do some errands and some decorating and generally try to relax and enjoy the season without  getting sucked into the all too typical holiday frenzy. Plus, we now get two moderately warm days in a row tomorrow and Friday and I’ll then play with the tractor and tidy up the leftovers from yesterday’s snow blowing. May the bluebird of happiness avoid becoming an eagle’s dinner.

Eagle Poem

By Joy Harjo

To pray you open your whole self

To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon

To one whole voice that is you.

And know there is more

That you can’t see, can’t hear;

Can’t know except in moments

Steadily growing, and in languages

That aren’t always sound but other

Circles of motion.

Like eagle that Sunday morning

Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky

In wind, swept our hearts clean

With sacred wings.

We see you, see ourselves and know

That we must take the utmost care

And kindness in all things.

Breathe in, knowing we are made of

All this, and breathe, knowing

We are truly blessed because we

Were born, and die soon within a

True circle of motion,

Like eagle rounding out the morning

Inside us.

We pray that it will be done

In beauty.

In beauty.

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