Soar by Tracy Edward Wymer Page A

was near Gabriela’s house. Everything that comes close to Gabriela seems bigger and better.
    Bird: Northern cardinal
    Location: Gabriela’s front yard (in giant oak tree)
    Note: Most impressive northern cardinal seen this year.
    Dad: You would flip out over the Bird Talkers.
    I’ve never seen so many colorful feathers in one place.
    It makes me wonder about myself.
    Am I a colorful person?

Bow Tie — Wearing Quail Killer
    T he next Friday, before school starts, I wake up early and head to Miss Dorothy’s to look for the golden eagle. I walk around the side of her house, the brown grass crunching under my shoes.
    Miss Dorothy leans on a cane behind her screen door. Her white hair matches the house’s chipped paint. She waves at me, and I wave back.
    â€œMorning, Miss Dorothy!” I shout.
    â€œShouldn’t you be in school?” she asks.
    I look at my watch. “Not for another twenty minutes!”
    â€œGo ahead, Eddie. It’s all yours.” She smiles and gestures to her backyard, like she has just unveiled a magical forest for the first time.
    â€œThanks, Miss Dorothy!”
    She cups a hand behind one ear. “What did you say?”
    I put both hands around my mouth to funnel the sound. “Thanks!”
    She turns and hobbles back into the kitchen.
    Miss Dorothy can’t hear like she used to. It’s too bad she’s going downhill, because her land is going with her. It used to be nice back here, so nice that Dad would let me swim in the pond. But now the water is low from lack of rain. Besides that, people with nothing better to do sneak back here and throw parties and leave their trash everywhere.
    Today an old tennis shoe and a Doritos bag float on the water. Plastic bags and soggy cardboard boxes sit at the pond’s edge. And then there’s that dead fish smell, which never goes away.
    Still, there are enough rabbits, mice, and other small rodents here to keep raptors happy, and that’s what matters to me.
    I circle the pond and head toward the railroad tracks. The tracks mark the end of Miss Dorothy’s land.Coop likes to perch on the telephone poles back there, so I might catch her chasing down breakfast.
    When I get to the tracks, there’s no sign of Coop anywhere. Maybe she’s still sleeping, or maybe she’s already tracked down a sparrow.
    I search the ground for traces of the golden eagle. All I find is a rusted coffee can and an old bicycle. I kick the can, and it tumbles forward, clanking off a hollow log. The bicycle hides down in the brush. It’s been out here so long that it’s hard to tell the paint from the rust.
    BANG!
    I hit the ground and cover my head!
    BANG!
    Gunshots?
    Someone is shooting!
    I look around and then bolt for cover under an elm tree. I stay low and wait, breathing hard, trying to control my thumping heart.
    No more shots are fired, so I run around the pond to where I think the shots came from. The pond’s far side is empty, so I scamper past more trees, all the way to the railroad tracks. Squatting behind a log, I brace for another gunshot.
    But there’s only silence.
    I wonder where Coop is, and if she’s okay.
    I hide in the brush, my head sticking out far enough to follow the tracks. A man stands on the railroad tracks, about three robins’ nests away. He wears a camouflage jacket and pants, and a bright orange hat. He points the shotgun into the air.
    BANG!
    A northern bobwhite stops midflight, free-falls from the sky, and lands between two railroad ties.
    It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a person shoot a living thing, and it’s a bird. I swallow twice to keep my throat from getting dry.
    The hunter leans the shotgun against his leg and turns up his jacket collar.
    I move back into the brush, out of sight, until I can figure out who’s hunting on Miss Dorothy’s land.
    The hunter walks my way, holding the shotgun across his chest like a soldier. As he