One of the pleasures of living in one of the Mid-Atlantic states is that any time the urge seizes one to see a bald eagle, all that is necessary is to hop in a car and drive to Conowingo Dam. Park in the convenient lot, peer about to see where the guys with the really really really big telephoto lenses are pointing their cameras, and there they are.
As am I.
Young writers, the next time somebody points out to you that the chances of making a living writing are vanishingly small, that the same skills would set you up good in advertising, and that none of your heroes died rich, consider this . . . It's a Monday morning and I feel like looking at eagles. So I will.