Sinking islands by cai emmons
The sun is like a brush tambourine in the eastern sky, a rare winter morning when the view South across the bay is not sullied by sleeves of fog. See in snowcapped Olympics are both clear, invisible in the same line division one of the reason she loves this place is she staying on the chili winter sand in Barefeet, binoculars in hand, listening to the polished pebbles at the end of the beach chortling with each outgoing wave three seals pop-up in quick succession maybe 20 yards out, staring at her, as if to say, good morning then smirch again repairing a minute Leader, much closer, an eagle rides, a thermal rising to a pin point against the blue, as if to display his strength and grandeur then descending abruptly to the ocean surface to grass, something in its talons, instead of rising in flight again, the Eagle we can swim hunting it’s brought Wings at regular intervals like someone swimming breaststroke. She feels her own scapula, rising and falling in sympathy what work it must be, especially in winter this cold.
What does the simile “like someone swimming the breaststroke” suggest about the eagle?
She embodies Bronwyns desire for freedom
She possesses a human like a sense of determination
She reflects Bronwyns own love of the water
He relies primarily on fish as a source of food