Heads swivel and eyes follow a finger pointing skyward.
Locked together, talons to talons, African fish eagles plummet toward earth in their mating dance, twirling in passionate grip with each other, taut bodies wheeling faster and faster towards earth, picking up suicidal speed. Spiraling, spiraling, feather tip to feather tip, wind streaming through their feathers.
The eagles break off a second before hitting the ground and swoop up to roost in trees opposite each other. They scream back and forth, flinging their heads over their shoulders. The female’s voice is lower, counter-point to the male’s shriek.
One of the guides shakes his head. “I have never seen that before.”
Like the bald eagles in North America, African fish eagles have chestnut bodies, long yellow beaks, yellow feet, pure white heads, white tails and white chests, although their bibs are larger.
They have the same habits – they mate for life and build huge stick nests in trees, nests twelve feet wide and ten feet deep. They dwell in the same habitats – rivers, lakes, creeks, lagoons, estuaries, sea coasts and man-made reservoirs. Both carry fish caught near the water’s surface in their grasping talons, carry the fish headfirst for lesser wind resistance, one claw behind the other, surfing, riding a fish through waves of air.
Holding to their tree with fierce feet, the eagles continue to scream at each other, perhaps in excitement from their mating twirl, or perhaps because they are dizzy. Eagles have somewhat the same structure in their inner ears as humans, including the looping canals for balance. Ah, that instinct, the one that will sweep you off your feet, twirl you around, make you dizzy, breathless, and, for the moment, drop you down totally in love.
An Excerpt from my book:
On the far side of a large swath of golden grass the air shimmers, full of birds. As if by some sort of avian telepathy, Red-billed queleas rise and fall in curling waves, with wing-beats that sound like distant surf. Wave after wave washes across the clearing in front of us. It’s impossible to distinguish individual birds among the swell and tumble. Dust rises, perfumed by millions of feathers, hundreds of birds, each bird no bigger than my thumb. The flock settles into a tree. The branches of the tree droop as if suddenly laden with snow, then spring back up as the birds roll on.