Ice floats down the Mississippi all day like onions simmering in broth.
Bald Eagles stir the mixture with talons grasping for surfacing fish.
Hours later, the last rays of the sun paint the pot purple as eggplant, and the mixture thickens into a stew.
Impassively, Eagles settle onto branches to await the morning sun, whose rays will again dissipate the steaming, congealed River to reveal the meat their crying chicks require.
We DID It 