Glistening flakes gently slipped earthward, unremittingly, a zephyr misleading its might, quieting and dampening the day with its dense crystal. Maples bowed and brush gave in. Onyx wiring from pole to pole sagged and threatened. And then, a lull, followed by cordoned conduits, and an unexpected (though inevitable) full fold.
He remained perched there, in our woodland, near defiant, commanding, staring interminably with tacit purview. Brittle hinges thrust forward—an unobstructed view for immutable impressions—the hawk did not budge. Not one whit.
He directed his vision intensely upon me, discerning; in symmetry with surrounding nature. Poised, balanced on the hardwood’s snow ensconced limb, as if to say, I see, I understand, I lead. I clicked and clicked—an echo cutting the calm—transcribing with light what is not possible with words. There was no distinct cry, no acknowledgment, really. Solid, silent he was; stoic cooperation and goodwill.
And then wire and cable sparked, followed by a rumble and hum of utility. And the children suddenly about, energy restored. Goodbye, I whispered to my subject. Yet I knew I was his, and he likely observed more keenly than I. He: a harbinger, a symbol; archetype of power and vision, and supreme virtues of the world.
He, who spoke to me.