A bald eagle visits me every day. I have learned to recognize his voice as he approaches, a querulous complaint against the crows that usually accompany him like a desperate ring of courtiers vying for his attention. To people who will listen, I have mentioned that to be an eagle is to be harassed from sunup to sundown. If the crows leave him alone for a moment, their place is taken by herring gulls cursing his existence. No one likes an eagle except other eagles, it seems, and the eagle shrinks down when the birds dive at him, this bandit among the large pines. Half amused, half ashamed of his bulk and thieving nature, he settles on the topmost rim of branches, a Billy Budd foretopman, his eyes scanning the cold waters of the Pennamaquan River as it merges with Cobscook Bay.

I count on his visits and keep two sets of binoculars nearby, wanting to have a pair within reach wherever I happen to be on my two acres of land in Pembroke, a small community that once took its living from the sea. I am aware that the eagle has become something of a project for me. My son, when he calls from his home in New Hampshire, asks if I have seen the eagle that day, and I know that he is asking out of kindness, out of an acknowledgement of my age and the emptiness of my daily calendar, and yet I can’t help playing my part and relating to him the itinerary of the eagle’s visit. Yes, I tell him, the eagle came early this morning, stayed for nearly 15 minutes, and yes, it was on that perch on The Eagle Tree, the name I have for the bird’s favorite pine. Last year, a storm took down the tallest pine overlooking the water, and I worried that the eagle would find another place to rest while the crows and gulls hectored him. But the eagle has taken to the new tree, and so it is a safe, light topic that my son and I can explore without any of the weightier subjects that circle around us. We both know that this beautiful land overlooking this vibrant estuary is the place I am making my last stand. I live here with stage-four lung cancer, each motion, however minimal, underlined by a dry cough, my fist to my lips, my heart and head and breath paused for a moment while I wonder if and how I will continue.

So the eagle is useful and welcome. It is understood now that I am becoming mist, the ghost of my youthful life, an old man who swims in the sea and rivers to bathe, a rough birch cane in my left hand to steady myself and sometimes to help me stand. I have chosen to live this way, to live near the sea without running water, to surround myself with simple beauty. My days have been emptied of all fanfare and complication. I play chess on the computer, read great gulps of books, nap, and study the weather both in the sky and in my chest. I watch the Red Sox replay in the early morning, at first light, and find I have not given up rooting for our beloved nine. I was an Orioles fan as a boy, but 40 years in New England has changed my loyalty. The players, however, are becoming mist as well. My childhood hero, Brooks Robinson, died this past year, but I see him in the young Sox players, see myself, honestly, standing at the plate, the smell and taste of dirt and chalk and a dense wool uniform heated by the sun. Those memories are here too.
    -My Final Days on the Maine Coast: Diagnosed with advanced lung cancer, a writer meditates on life, death, and beauty from his small seaside cottage down east. (Joseph Monninger, February 2025, Down East)