Breakfast Birds

These days nothing gives me more pleasure than sharing my breakfast with eagles.

I am not sure whether they enjoy my company as much as I do theirs. But sometimes, I can almost see them looking at me from the corners of their sharp eyes. And winking.

The eagles and I are separated by a glass wall. I am enclosed in the air of conditioned comfort. In my eighth floor cafeteria and they are outside: soaring, somersaulting and surfing the thermals like trapeze artists.

They are practicing. Bettering their mastery of the air. But they make the work seem like so much fun.

Sometimes, I also see them thinking. Sitting at perches high and perilous enough to cause vertigo in lesser birds. I see the eagles dwell on the vastness and the minutiae of their world. Without being seduced by one or perplexed by the other.

I see the eagles as a symbol of staggering equanimity. They don’t sing. They don’t dance. They don’t cuckold. They don't stalk. They KILL only when hunger visits. Otherwise they're content just using their magnificent flappers.

I don’t think food weighs heavy on their minds. That they can get any time, in just one clean swoop of wings, claws and calculated force.

I think eagles don’t have the fancies and phobias of low-fliers.

Am amazed at how much my breakfast friends have taught me by simply being themselves.


  1. This is like Abba's Eagles revisited! But yours is musical even without the notes! Poetic and lyrical in its own respect.


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