Where Eagles Squat

Ever since I found out a couple of bald freakin' eagles nest near my home, I've been hounding their press agents for an exclusive interview. No call-backs yet, but from the look of the vindictive shitstains covering Unit 4, the big birds know I'm onto them. That's why I hooked up with Melissa Whitmire, lenslinging member of the ornithological paparazzi. Who better to lead me to the water's edge than Melissa - whose sighting scope and quite nature make her a trusted guide into the brush. Like a sniper, she pointed to the treeline three hundred yards away and spoke of a particular oak. I meanwhile picked spiderwebs out of my teeth and nodded as if I saw it. Not that it mattered; those haughty birds of prey were out carousing. Only when they tended their nest in winter months were they reliably sightable.

Today I'd have to settle for some hot Heron on Heron action; that and a gander at Melissa's considerable portfolio. In the end, I didn't let the lack of air power stop me from making slot. Not when two 'rescue eagles' sat in captivity forty five minutes down the interstate. (By the way, may I recommend Dan Nicholas Park outside Salisbury as a great place to have a picnic, rent a paddle boat or shoot a foster kid profile?) I only wish the God of Microphones hadn't garbled my interview with one David Jones - a most helpful park employee who hopefully remembered how to spell Lenslinger-Dot-Com. That way, maybe he won't think I was just some weirdo with a fancycam, for the knowledge he dropped really enriched my finished report. As for the national symbol nesting near my neghborhood, I'll see you in January, baldy...