I was on my way to one of my favorite haunts—Sachuest National Wildlife Refuge—when my brain decided to multitask.
Never a good sign.
Because instead of just driving like a normal, focused human being, I was conducting a full-blown internal investigation of my last visit:
Why are there cars… but no staff?
Is the visitor center on a silent retreat? Budget cuts?
Has everyone been abducted… but politely left their vehicles behind?
Important questions.
The only clear sign of civilization?
The bathroom was always open and clean. Volunteers?
So… someone’s alive. Priorities intact.
I’m mid-conspiracy theory when—BAM—nature taps me on the shoulder with a two-by-four.
There it is.
A bird.
Not just a bird.
A very large bird.
Across from the Newport YMCA, perched like it owns the zip code.
Now, thanks to winter’s leafless honesty, there’s nowhere for this thing to hide. No foliage. No camouflage. Just feathers and authority.
I get closer.
Closer.
And then it hits me.
OMG.
A Bald Eagle.
In the morning sun.
Glowing like it just negotiated its own spotlight.
And just like that…
I transform.
Not gradually.
Not gracefully.
Instantaneously.
Into…
“The Bird Guy.”
You know the one.
My son found the evidence years ago—a drawer in the basement labeled “Bird Stuff.”
He looks at Trish and goes,
“Dude loves his birds.”
Guilty.
And here’s the twist—there was a time when my main interaction with birds involved dodging aerial “surprises” on my windshield.
Now?
I will abandon all structure and dignity for one good feathered moment.
Which is exactly what happened.
I didn’t pull over.
Oh no.
I executed what can only be described as a controlled roadside event.
Flashers on.
Half on the shoulder.
Half inventing a new parking category.
And out comes the lens.
Not a lens.
A device.
Something that looks like it requires FAA clearance.
I point it at the eagle, and suddenly, traffic behaves like I’ve spotted a UFO.
Cars slow.
People stare.
You can almost hear it:
“What’s he looking at?”
“Is it serious?”
“Should we also pull over?”
Meanwhile, I’m whispering like a man who’s forgotten everything except feathers:
“Don’t move… don’t move… you magnificent beast…”
To everyone delayed on their commute that morning—
I apologize.
Truly.
But also…
Not even a little.
Because this—this right here—is how I live now.
On the edge.
Ready to stop everything at a moment’s notice.
Mid-sentence.
Mid-thought.
Mid-step.
For the right bird.
The right light.
The right moment that reminds me the world is still wildly, unapologetically alive.
And let’s be honest—
I’m not distracted.
I’m just…
appropriately interrupted by nature.
Naturally.
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