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Hawk Eye

Today was my last day on the prairie. It rained off and on all day long. I snuck in breaks when the windows revealed a sunbreak or at least a brighter sky.

I stepped out the door for the last afternoon break. Something caught my eye. A large object looked in the poplar tree across the street. Was it a bag, caught by the tree’s branches? Was it a cancerous outgrowth?

Then it moved.

red-tailed hawk.jpg

I had crossed the street by this time to get a better look. I stood watching it. I fought with the zipper on my coat. The sound probably caught its attention. The large bird, a hawk in all it glory, turned its head around to look at me. I finally got the coat zipped.

The hawk stared. I stared. Then, bored of our silent interaction, it mounted up and flew away.

I continued my circuit around the prairie loop. I hoped to spy a female hummingbird wintering over in Washington. I named her Ingrid. No Ingrid today. But the sun had moved down low in the sky. She was probably somewhere hunkered down, keeping warm. I saw chickadees and heard the melodic strains of red-winged blackbirds calling to each other.

As I walked down the hill to turn into the complex one last time, the hawk soared above me. He flew over the road, seemingly without effort. I watched him go.

I smiled. It felt like a prairie “adieu”. Everything has its season. I’ve had mine. It’s time to move on. 

For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven. – Ecclesiastes 3:1

 

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