An essay by Chad Schomber
On the way back from the store, somewhere between the two-lane blacktop and old dirty trails, I played chicken with a bird that could eat my neighbor’s dog.
It was one of those roads lined with whispering corn and half-listening trees. Late afternoon. That color of light where everything looks like it’s being remembered already. I had eggs in the seat beside me. A few other bags. Nothing major. Just the kind of things you get when you’re out.
I crested the hill doing a clean sixty. Radio off. Window cracked. Thinking about nothing in particular. The kind of still moment where you forget you're a body in motion. And then there he was.
Dead center of the road.
Big. Broad. Bold. Wings tucked at his sides like a man who doesn’t need to roll up his sleeves to prove a point. An eagle. Not the cartoon kind, not the calendar kind. The kind that looks like it’s been carved from stone and set loose as a warning.
I’ve seen animals in the road before. Deer, mostly. Possums. One confused goose that treated the center line like a tightrope. But this was different. This wasn’t panic. Wasn’t aimlessness. This was posturing. This was a stare-down.
He didn't move.
Now, most birds, they flutter, they calculate. Survival’s a reflex. But this one? He waited. Let me get close. Closer. He stared right through the windshield like he was watching me lose a bet I didn’t know I made.
I should have braked earlier. I didn’t. Pride's cheap until it costs you something. He should have flown. He didn’t. And then we were within yards of each other, both of us moving too fast and too proud to yield.
I slammed the brakes.
Tires barked. Groceries jostled. That familiar lurch of gravity catching up. A cloud of dust swirled up around the hood. And in that moment, just before my truck stopped, he winked.
Not blinked. Not flinched. Winked. Like we were in on something together. Some quiet, absurd agreement between two stubborn beasts too dumb to back off.
Then he took off. Wings spread, slow and wide like he had all the time in the world. No panic. No apology. Just vertical grace. He cleared the cab by inches, if that, and disappeared into the sky like it was his name on the title.
I sat there, foot still on the brake, heart thudding like it was trying to tell me something I wouldn’t believe.
Because what do you do after that?
You drive home.
You unload the eggs. You check the shells like they might’ve cracked from the stop. You toss the receipt on the counter. Wash your hands. Stare out the window a little longer than usual.
But somewhere in your bones, a small shift happens. The way an old tree leans just slightly more to the east after a storm. You were seen. Measured. Found amusing, maybe. Or just spared.
You start to wonder how many things you’ve looked past. Birds on poles. Shadows on roads. The way animals move when they’re not afraid. How many times you’ve mistaken survival for submission. Confidence for cruelty. Power for presence.
And you’ll drive that road again. You’ll keep an eye out. Not because you're scared. But because part of you still wants a rematch. Not to win. Just to see if he remembers.
You don’t forget a thing like that.
And you don’t tell too many people either. Because the truth is, it wasn’t just an eagle. Not really.
It was something older. Something quieter. The kind of thing that doesn’t need to explain itself.
You just had to stop.
And look it in the eye.