To me, the eclipse was never about wearing protective glasses to watch the moon swallowing the sun. Cloud cover did not matter. It was all about the darkness. I looked forward to watching darkness vanish mid-afternoon daylight in a matter of minutes. How would the birds react? Would my dog, Jack, howl or whimper? How would I feel?
I watched from my backyard deck overlooking a small, wooded area. Totality would occur at 3:23 pm. I could feel the air slowly cooling, swirling around me. I watched as a pair of Red-tailed Hawks majestically flew skyward toward a pine tree, returning to their nest. Daylight gradually filtered as weak shadows danced across the deck floor. Pigeons and Mourning Doves flocked then magically vanished. A pair of Purple Finches, nesting beneath the roofline above my deck, swooped past my head and returned home. The gentle trill of two cardinals faded into the deepening twilight. A call followed by a response. The defiant caw of a lone crow pierced the darkness and then all was silent.
Jack quietly brushed and rubbed against me, pleading to go inside. But daylight was now returning much more quickly than it had departed and Jack soon settled down.
Cheering and clapping came from the streets below blending with the distant echo of firecrackers. It was a celebration of one of the biggest marvels of the universe and more humbling than anything I have ever experienced. A single moment in time gave us the chance to come together to share something much bigger than ourselves and that was a reason to celebrate.
Ron Theel is a freelance writer, mixed media artist, and photographer living in Syracuse, New York. His work has appeared in “The RavensPerch,” “The Bluebird Word,” “Midway Journal,” and other places.
