Poised each on his own still pine-tree top, majestically silent in the peaceful overhang of Skeena’s turbulent waters, sat Skeena’s royal eagles. Looking up, looking down the river’s noble sweep, my eye counted thirty of the kingly birds, each independently throned on his pine tree, each wearing a snowy crown of gleaming white, strong against the green of our sombre northern forest—a square-shouldered, square-tailed bird, except for his white crown, all black, rusty black.
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