This morning I got my ass up at 5:30, downed a pot of coffee, stuffed my face with cream of wheat, grabbed my camera and binoculars and was out the door just as the sun hit the horizon.
I was inspired to search for baseballs. In plan words… eagle watching. It's getting late in the season and there was no time to waste.
I had an absolutely blissful and meditative morning scanning treetops and watching old Baldy rip the hell out of yummy fishes. In all honesty, being on the river alone with those incredible birds is inspiring and feels like a distinct privilege.
It also helps to be wrapped up to your ears in layers of warm clothes. I got caught in snow bursts. Ever hear of a snow burst? Me either, but the eagles and I hunkered in close to the trunks until the fitful five minute blizzards were over. It was a bonding experience.
Around noon I crossed the river and headed downtown. I had to pick something up and even though it was President's day, parking sucked around Memorial Drive.
I was waiting for the light to change so that I could make another run up around the courthouse. Just as it changed and I hit the gas, I did a double take at the man I'd just passed. The man that I'd seen in my peripheral was a monk, a Buddhist monk and from the maroon robe and gold monk bag, Tibetan at that.
I was too far passed him with cars crawling up my trunk, so I couldn't stop. I only knew of one monk that might be in town, Lama Lobsong, who I haven't seen for more than a year. I decided to go around the block and see if I could offer whoever he was a ride.
When I came back around, he was gone. I don't know where he went, but he was quick. I drove around a bit more, just in case he might emerge from some secret passage. He was gone. Gone to his warm destination, I hope.
It isn't every day that I pass a Tibetan monk on the streets of St. Louis. For me, that's about as likely as a bald eagle landing next to me and offering me a fish.
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