Early morning hour, sun rising, neighbors cat sleeping on the chair outside my front door; startled poor little Pistachio as I walked out with my morning coffee. Something about the early morning hour, such a tranquil silent calm; makes a person feel good about the world.
The day now lit, looking at the treetops above, there’s a hawk soaring high, looking for his morning meal, the ultimate critter getter; waiting in his flight to set his eyes and talons on some unsuspecting rodent. Not much passes the hawks attention, he sees everything, I have well placed hope; that his keen eyes skip over the presence of Pistachio, he’s such a sweetheart of a cat.
I watch the hawk, just cruising round and round, circular motion that moves the hawk in a path further down the line; always vigilant of the ground below. Then, when I least expect it, without my understanding, the hawk straightens out his flight, moving deeper into the morning blue; the hawk is now just a speck on the horizon.
Got to thinking about that hawk, at times, it’d be good to be him; just fly above the hubbub, the crowd. Ya know, it’s still morning, that hawk, he’s gonna be into tomorrow before I even hit this days noon.
Wouldn’t it be nice, when the sirens are sounding, speeders speeding, fighters fighting, walkers walking, junkies junking; just tilt a wing and fly away. Far above, the only thing on the hawks mind is the food and surviving the expanse of mankind; and all that man has built in his way, or destroyed.
Somehow, in my gut, I know that hawk knows something better than us humans do; somehow, that hawk has known for centuries that mankind forms his own tethers, his own chains. The only law the hawk knows is survival, that’s it, even those pesky crows that chaise after the hawk, taunting him like bullies on the wing, the hawk won’t even fluster, he will stay true to the law of survival.
Mother Nature, she’s a good teacher, but from birth to death, the hawk knows not to be frivolous in life, he knows that he has to learn about life if he’s going to survive; his life is a tough one, he knows it. He understands the perils he faces, he learns, like the crows that taunt him, the fight rarely overrides the need to survive, but when it does; the crows will know when the black feathers float to the ground. Those pesky crows will know then, that they picked on the wrong warrior of the sky.
The hawk, he don’t live to impress, he’s no fool, yet he knows little of just how impressive he is; how envious some humans are of him. Those wings, his freedom, his vision and cunning ways. But even envy never enters the hawks life, what’s the hawk got to be envious about; he in his life has honed his skills to a razors edge, while others play at survival, he just simply, is.