nothus_a_um

On this day, in the photo shop, Brian made his own acid-embossed engraving, from the pictures he took of eagles on his mountain hikes. He's watched them, sitting on his riverside dock, hunting rockfish and other chum, sometimes snagging something piscinely big, too bathetic to handle - dropping it from stunned talons, and flapping away with hungry whines.

Sitting in his white apron and stained sleeveless shirt, in a dark room, over the vat of ferric chloride, the fumes seemed to clear his head and purify his thoughts (even as they crisped his hair). No more sleepless nights looking at illegal copies of happy people in the Everglades, Okeefenokee, smiling children in tow, beautiful wives with flashing smiles and blonde hair before the sun. He was going to do something. He was going to take charge.

At night, he heats the metal plate with the propane torch, sitting on the dock, and wiggles the floating head of romaine lettuce with his left foot. When the manatees come nibbling tentatively, he bides his time, seizes his moment, burning his eagle brand into the flesh of the first. It makes no sound, but dives deep into the cool water without delay. No eagle will ever be too small to find prey again.