Some days I can’t wait to get to the writing.

No rhyme or reason to it. I blow off the morning exercise, eschew the shower, and fire up the laptop. The night might have been broken by a restless waking, as last night was. The morning may be thundering. Or none of the above. There is no specific task that wants tackling. I can’t help myself.

The writing wants me here.

This is one of those mornings. I can barely make the time to make the bed or brew the coffee. Only the forced conscience of empty cat dishes makes sure that the buddies get fed. This morning, I wrestled with myself over the disinclination to tie on the running shoes in favor of the page. I took a minute to take the day into my head. And from that momentary act the benediction came.

A grey sky heavy with the scent of coming rain. And the gift…a baby eagle, making a slow circle over the river came close to the house. Eye-height and close. One flapless glide and gone. Permission with feathers.

I don’t believe in portents (at least not that I’ll admit to anybody), but the eagle has always been the totem spirit for this house, talking to me when weekends here were all I had. An eagle flying over in an unexpected place (the superhighway south through Branson) was my assurance that my house was all right after a devastating ice storm. An eagle told me that I had survived the flood of 2008. What the eagle suggests to me, I do.

Eagle flyby when I am contemplating the day. Eagle says to write. Eagle says now.