I had just flipped a U-turn at the top of South Fork Canyon and started heading back down when I saw it—first only a lazy V of a large, dark bird gliding above the road. Its slow, effortless steadiness convinced me it was a raptor. I watched it, curious, until it banked. That’s when the light caught its tail: a bright white flare against the darker mountain slope.
My heart lifted. My foot eased off the gas.
“Look at its tail lights,” my wife said—her perfect name for that bright white patch announcing exactly what we were seeing before the head ever came into view.
It rose and settled on the top of a tall spruce—a bald eagle perched like a sentry where we’d least expected it. It sat for a long moment, fully revealed: white hood, yellow beak, dark body, white tail, yellow talons. No hurry. No fear. Just quiet sovereignty.
Then it launched.
We followed as it swept down the canyon, riding the wind with such calm authority that everything else felt noisy. The wings opened wide and unhurried, like oars dipping into still water. It held the same elevation as the treetops while the road dropped beneath us. We drove slowly, almost reverently, accompanying its glide rather than chasing it.
At the mouth of the canyon, and now high above us, it began to circle. Only then did we notice a second eagle approaching from the right, cutting through the air with a confident downward sweep. Their greeting was beautiful: the newcomer darting gently toward the first, both birds tightening their turn as if acknowledging one another in a language older than sound. My wife caught the moment on video—the instant they bent the air together.
We followed their flight for another mile as they slipped down the canyon, rising higher now, looser, freer. Then, above the last ridge before the valley, a third eagle appeared—joining the others in widening spirals hundreds of feet above us.
Three eagles in November.
In Provo Canyon.
On a morning when I expected nothing more than a quiet drive.
It felt auspicious.
The old Greek writers—Homer, Herodotus, Xenophon—loved moments like this. Eagles appearing before journeys or decisions. Not as fortune-tellers, but as reminders: lift your eyes, steady your heart, remember that strength often arrives before you know you need it.
And parked there in the canyon, watching three birds circle in layered rings of cold November air, I understood why. Some signs aren’t meant to predict anything at all—they’re meant to awaken something. Invitations disguised as encounters. Gifts wrapped in feathers and wind.
God does this with me outdoors.
Often.
Quietly.
When life feels heavy, He places something in my path that reorients me—pulling me out of my head and back into wonder. This morning, it happened to have broad wings, bright “tail lights,” and a flight path drawn across a canyon sky.
I drove home feeling lighter.
More grounded.
More watched over.
And maybe that’s all an omen really is—not a prophecy, but a reminder to look up and trust that strength is already on its way.
