A Final Bird Story

Dunlap once again. I was lonely, unhappy, depressed, and my beloved Sport 150E was all I had left in the world. I set up, launched, and sought solace in flight. At 8000' MSL over Delilah Lookout I spotted a golden eagle.
Golden eagles are rare at Dunlap. Dunlap is red-tailed hawk country, I don't know why. Perhaps it has something to do with the terrain -- the vegetation may not provide an adequate habitat for an eagle's preferred prey. This eagle was a curiosity.
It was also directly below me, in the same thermal, traveling at precisely the same course and speed. Only our climb rates were different: as I watched, the eagle grew closer.
She -- I assume the bird was female because of her enormous size -- gave no indication she was aware of my presence. It is possible that she did not see me; eagles fear no predator in the skies, and it is reputed that they, alone among birds of prey, never look above or behind them.
I, on the other hand, could see every detail of the eagle, and stared in utter fascination. I could see her primary feathers shift as she made minute adjustments in attitude. I could watch every movement of her head as she looked over the valley below. I was awed and amazed. I forgot my sorrow, then and forever. The experience was unbelievable, unearthly, almost spiritual, like looking down upon an angel.
The eagle rose until she was only 20 feet below me. A collision was imminent. If we both held our course, if neither of us flinched, we would soon be so close that I could reach down and touch her.
I was tempted -- what a unique experience it would have been, to touch an eagle in flight -- but I felt, and still feel, that we humans go through the world touching too many things. In the end, I was the one who flinched. I was the one who banked away. I looked over my shoulder, rolled right, and when I looked back, the eagle -- if she was, in fact, an eagle -- was gone.