Long before names were carved into stone and rivers forgot the first songs, Eagle was already there — woven from wind, shaped by the whispers of clouds.
The People say Eagle was not born to rule, nor to boast of his heights. He was born to see — to carry the eyes of the earth where no feet could tread.
When storms thickened and the trees bowed low, Eagle did not hide. He did not fear the roaring sky. Instead, he climbed higher, where only silence and light dwell. Above the storm, he listened. He watched. He waited.
His feathers held the stories of many dawns — red like embers, gold like harvest, soft as the voice of night. His eyes, sharp and knowing, did not chase what passed quickly. They held the shape of time, the memory of each stone, the quiet dance of seasons.
The elders say Eagle teaches not with talons, but with stillness. Not with hunger, but with balance.
"Strength is not in the rising alone," they whisper. "It is in knowing when to rise, and when to let the wind carry you."
Eagle, they call him Nokomisá — The Skywalker, comes when spirits are heavy. When burdens weigh the wings of the people, he appears not to fight, but to remind:
"You are not bound by the ground. You were made to rise. The sky does not belong to the strongest, but to those who dare to spread their wings when the world forgets to fly."
