Since late February, early March, I have been, daily, watching an eagles’ nest in California. As each day unbends itself and unspools its time and its events, I sit at my teacher desk, or in my dogs’ favorite chair, or on my deck’s warped boards and check in on the eagles. I thrilled during pip-watch when the hatchlings pecked their way through the eggs.

I rejoiced when the third egg, even though suspected to be the first one laid, hatched four days after its pair of siblings had spilled from their eggs’ cavities and huddled under their mother, Jackie, in the nest’s bowl.

I mourned when the first hatchling died after possibly being exposed to freezing cold during a late winter snowstorm. And I grieved a little when nature took its course and the parents consumed part of the dead hatching before removing the limp, flapping remains.

Each day, I counted the two chicks. I watched as their slaggy, egg-shaped naked pink bodies sprouted spiny, spindly down feathers that tufted out and made them look like woudl-be 80’s punks. With bulging eyes and curled beaks, they were demanding little demons of their parents. With heads too big for their skinny necks, they performed ungraceful swandives around the nest, struggling to keep their heads upright and waddle-flap-step toward their parents and mounds of headless fish.

I learned about the crops. Not just their purpose, but their location. When the hatchlings stretched their necks and the concave lump just at their chest bulged out, looking almost tumorous, I saw their survival. Their camel-esque hump that stored the food waiting to be digested. And when the hatchlings seemed to hiccup, the crops emptied and another day was survived. Another stretch of time could unspool in their favor.

Eventually, the axis of the hatchlings’ balance beams righted and they gained the muscle and strength and stability to amble around the nest. The older of the two was the dominant and, when the younger would nip out, the older would grasp the younger sibling in the curvature of its beak and shake. The tiny body would shudder for a moment and, upon release, hang its head. And I empathized. Oh, wee one. I truly understand.

Each day, as I breathed through my life and its storms and its deserts and its harmonies, I clicked on the YouTube channel and read the updates on the hatchlings’ growth markers, the number of fish delivered by which parent. The amusing number of “poop shots” that sometimes geysered onto a parent.

When they reached what was considered a sustainable age, school children voted on names for the hatchlings: Sunny for the elder, Gizmo for the younger. I loved the names, especially Gizmo, a hearkening to my adolescent years and loving Gizmo from Gremlins. I mentally snarked at the adults who criticized the eagles’ names and smugly laughed at the other adults who wondered why anyone would care about the eagles and their names. It’s not like they were going to have to worry about their Real ID or the concerns over preferred names. Plus, children chose the names. Doesn’t that answer everything and make everything fine?

For anyone who has the need to complain about the eaglets’ names, please refer yourself to my trashcan which will happily receive your complaints. If you need a face-to-face conversation, may I please refer you to my dusty mirror?

Names earned, Sunny and Gizmo grew. The down fluttered away, blown away by the growth of flight feathers. And with each gusting wind that bristled back the dark brown feathers on the eaglets’ heads, the gleaming white of their name hinted.

Soon, the joy was watching the eaglets grow in pace with their “clown feet.” Massive, yellow-orange taloned feet that were disproportionately massive in comparison to the eaglets who still struggled with simple movements as their feet clutched and scrawled against the grassy fluff or sticks their parents still delivered daily.

Each day. I watched. Counted and watched as the eaglets grew beyond their feet. Within ten weeks of their hatching date, they were the same size as their father, even outgrowing him. Due to the size of her (yes) feet and size, Gizmo was the first to be identified as female. Almost ten days later, Sunny was identified as female as well. And I felt a weird, smug sense of joy. With all the political unrest, with the uncertainty about the future, to see these two lovely sisters, perched in their nest, surveying the world from a 145 feet high height. I found a smidgen of hope. A sense that I could weather everything but had to cling to the branches beneath me.

And then, Sunny realized she had wings. For the last two plus weeks, she has been daily stretching her wings, flapping them and hopping around the nest. She looked like she was doing jumping-jacks, but she was so determined. Gizmo, too, followed her sister and at different points, they wing-strutted around the nest, clambering up to different branches, leaving the protective bowl empty.

By the way, for a while, Gizmo’s favorite branch was directly in front of the camera and she would stare at herself for what felt like hours. What a diva.

Last week, Sunny achieved “hover” status. Standing on a branch, she leaned into the wind, stretched out her wings and fanned her tail. As the wind gusted around and under her body, she wavered from side to side, adjusting her balance. Her tail ruddered, clasping the wind against her, and I watched the fingertips of her flight feathers stroking the horizon. She started flapping, heaving her wings against the wind, and with a leap, she caught the wind. Her legs and talons splayed, she rode the wind, cascaded backwards into the nest. But for those 3.3 seconds, she was aloft.

The future was hers. The future is theirs. The future is ours.

And today, around 1:50 my time, I checked the nest. One eaglet, perched on a bough just above the nest, scanning the sky.

The nest was empty. The usual branches were empty. Just one eaglet. So I opened my computer, tapped on the timeline, and started rewinding until I could see both eaglets. Hopscotching forward, I found each moment that I could only see one eaglet and went back until I could see them together and realized that I had missed the long, slender body camoflaged against the tree’s long, heavy branches.

Flashforward again. I foud a moment when the sole eaglet was on her perch. Go back precarious, precious moments and I found what seemed to be the last moments when they were together. What I presume was Sunny (since Gizmo hasn’t had her “hover” moment) was on a branch just above the nest. An elongated pedestal arching out over the valley. The wind shuddered the tree and she rocked with the rhythmic swooping. Her body swung low and her wings edged out from her body, as though embracing the wind, holding the air close to her side.

A moment. A long breath. She scanned the valley below her.

She gathered her weight beneath her. The muscles in her back unfurled as her wings spread.

And she leaped into air. A burst of energy from her wings, her legs straight, talons wide, and she sailed up in a banked curve. Up and away from the nest. Away from the tree.

Away.

The last eaglet, probably my sweet Gizmo, stared after her sister. Traced her first flight into the neighboring trees. Head swiveled over her shoulder, the lone eaglet watched her sister grow from hatchling to eaglet to fledgling.

The boundaries of time slipped sideways for a moment. I scrolled backwards and watched once more. The gust of wind. The bunching of muscles. The single, solitary leap of courageous faith in one’s own ability to remain aloft and escape the boundaries of the past. The legs still outstreched, talons open to grasp onto safety when it is within necessary reach.

I find myself grieving a little. I grieve for the emptier nest. The sole remaining sibling watching her sister’s departure, unable to follow because it’s not her time. She is not ready to hook the wind. Instead, she sits in her nursery of downy feathers, branches and bones and memories twined together and waits.

And, while I still have the time, I will wait with her and watch until her time arrives. And I will gasp with a poignant joy when she flies away.