Through it all, the fog and the gold, the eagle paddled on. To the east, a cloud layer obscured the sun until up it rose, gilding the water. But the eagle judged her trajectory, hunched her elbows into scoops, pulled them through the water, and in this way paddled toward shore, dragging the struggling fish.Ī fog bank blew in and blew out again. The nearest rocky point was a half mile away and the tide was running hard. Then, resigned, the eagle settled on the water and began to swim her prey toward shore. Equally hopeful of escape, the eagle and the salmon raised a murderous ruckus of light and sea.

The eagle flapped to rise with her prize, but her wings caught in the waves and she fell back. I’m going to suggest a bald eagle, with its hooked beak and terrifying claws: an eagle, like the one I once saw come swooping over the inlet, swing out its awful yellow talons, and grab a pink salmon off the water.

“And before I could raise my Heart from one, another has come.” If hope was perching in her soul, it was something far fiercer than a bluebird. “The Dyings have been too deep for me,” Emily wrote. Malaria, typhoid, and cholera ripped through families. Black slaves, having fled rape and lynching, hid in her neighbors’ barns. Loggers were advancing through the continent’s virgin forests. White supremacists were gathering in armies and marching north. I protest on Emily’s behalf: that is the wrong bird. Long after, artists illustrated her poem with a bird that always seems to be a perky little thing, sort of a cross between a bluebird and a wren, with its flirty tail and open beak-a juvenile, to judge from its big head. Their entwined art offers pluck, stubborn resolve, and even some laughter to those who have for years been working for environmental sanity, social justice, and ecological thriving. How do Earth’s protectors find the heart to continue the struggle? To this question, environmental philosopher Kathleen Dean Moore and Canadian artist Bob Haverluck bring twenty-two life-affirming essays and drawings. It’s hard to go on, but it is morally impossible to quit. Reprinted by permission.Įarth’s weary lovers are tired, perplexed, and battered from all directions.

Thing with feathers