Downbeat: The Crow, the Eagle, and the Unlucky Sucker Fish

There are days in retirement when you go fishing and expect nothing more dramatic than untangling your own line from your own hat.

That was my plan.

I was out fly fishing, having one of those rare days when the trout and I had reached a temporary agreement. I caught and released rainbows, tiger trout, and golden trout, which made me feel briefly competent in a way that should never be trusted.

Then I caught a little white sucker fish.

He was about ten inches long and came in with the enthusiasm of a wet sock. After a day of trout acting like they had legal representation, this fellow offered almost no resistance.

I set the hook with my usual retired-guy confidence, and the poor fish became airborne.

Not metaphorically.

He landed on the bank and began flopping toward the weeds like he had remembered an appointment.

I removed the hook, and before I could help, he wiggled toward the water. I figured he had it handled. I made another cast and returned to pretending I knew what I was doing.

That’s when the crow arrived.

It landed where the sucker fish had disappeared and began searching with the urgency of a man who misplaced his reading glasses on his own head.

The crow knew something was there. It just could not find it.

It hopped. It tilted its head. It left. Then it came back with the same irritated energy I have when my phone is not in my pocket, not on the counter, and somehow in the refrigerator.

This time, the crow found the fish.

It pulled him from the grass and made a sound I had not heard from a crow before. Not the usual caw-caw. This was more official.

A second crow appeared.

Apparently, this was now a meeting.

The crows were standing over lunch when an eagle cruised by above them. One crow gave chase, as if filing a complaint with upper management.

They landed in a tree, where I assume the crow explained property rights and the eagle considered the fish.

Meanwhile, the second crow guarded the prize.

Then the buzzards showed up.

First one. Then another. Then two more, all hopping in with the slow confidence of relatives who heard there was pie.

The crows tried to move the fish, dropped it, huddled over it, and seemed to realize the neighborhood had changed.

Just as the buzzards closed in, the eagle returned.

Everything scattered.

The eagle swooped down, took the fish, and flew away, apparently deciding that a small meal was still a meal.

The whole thing took maybe three minutes.

I stood thirty feet away with my mouth open, holding a fly rod, watching nature run an entire restaurant dispute without me.

I had video sunglasses on and never thought to turn them on. Some moments happen too fast for technology and just slow enough for wonder.

Nature works.

Not always gently. Not always fairly. Not with much concern for the little sucker fish.

But it works.

And every once in a while, if you are lucky, it lets you stand nearby and remember that the world is still running wild, even while you are just trying to catch a fish and find your glasses.

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Here are a few more that go down easy: