Hawks circle the mountain top, hunting. In the years that I’ve been here, it is the first that I’ve noted so many hawks in one spot on a regular basis. They circle by morning and dusk and it is quite a sight. I see them on my drive to town, over the hill, I do look and I keep my eyes on the road, but I keep stealing glances because I want this moment to stay with me, of the wheat colored grass, against the sky—whatever shade of blue or grey it is that day—and the freedom and strength of these massive creatures, that hunt with grace, that fly with ease and circle round and then swoop down. They cooperate with each other, circle round each other.
In my own little space, one hawk does fly and swoop—hunts to stay alive.