Passing the Torch

Yep. That Lamb can take over for the Lion now. The sooner the better.

Earlier this morning, staring absentmindely out the second floor window while getting dressed to take out the doggles. I saw one. Then another. Kiting together. Then later, in the still-bare branches of the tall tall oak tree, rebuilding together the nest for another year. Yes, the hawks have returned for another season.

And I have nenewed hope that days of warmer weather will follow their lead.

The Sky is Falling

Walking home from the bus stop last evening—for the first time I really and truly have to admit to myself, shivering in the near-darkness, that winter has very nearly arrived—it happened again. Same, dense rustle of feathers, I look upward to the telephone pole, see the birds (two this time) drop like heavy, smooth river stones, straight to the street, thudding to the hard concrete into a tangled sprawl of feathers less than two feet from me.

Only this time, it isn't a dying, juvenile robin. This time, it's one of my hawks, one of the red-tails that nest each season in the tall tall tree across the street from my home, and a dark greyish pigeon. I can only guess that, despite all the hawk's fluid grace when flying, the two birds have somehow collided mid-air, sent them both stunned to the ground. from the vivid coloring, I guess it to be the adult female, not the darker male and not one of the pair's young. I'm certain it's the bird I've watched year after year. And all I know is that she's standing close enough for me to reach out and touch her. That and this incident has just left me utterly and completely startled.

I see cars coming in either direction; I must do something. So I do something really stupid, and walk partway into the street, approach the hawk, dangerously close. I stand so that the cars have to go around me. A year ago, M. and I did this very same thing, helping a snake that had been awakened by the unseasonably warm October weather, cross the street safely.

A couple in a silver sedan slow, roll down the passenger window, stare at the birds still on the ground. The hawk has stood, but she clearly is disoriented. And the pigeon, well, it's safe to say the pigeon has not survived, either the collison or the fall.

The cars pass, the hawk attempts flight. She makes it to the other side of the street, to a front porch. Her wing is bent awkwardly, clearly in a twisted position that isn't quite right. We stare at one another with blinking eyes for many minutes, the human-animal distance between us breathtakingly small. Her beauty, which i can finally see in detail for the first time, brings tears to my eyes. I watch and wait.

More moments pass. She turns and takes flight, erratic and obviously strained, makes it to the roof of a two-story apartment building. In this instant, I have a helpless, but inevitable, feeling that I can do nothing but trust. I will see her again next spring.

Thirst for Salt

Not even plenty of caffeine can make snow fun. Nope. Uh uh. My dream of an endless summer has become buried under a blanket of slush. Just a week ago I looked out the window at the grey, endless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The lullaby of high tide reminds me of moments of utter bliss: swimming in the moonlit, wine-dark sea during summer solstice in Rethymnon, Crete, reading alone in Santa Cruz, snapping blurry photographs of my brother at Big Sur, the stinging wind and rain at Les Falaises d’Etretat and not even caring the boy I loved was about to leave me, dancing unabashedly on the cliffs above the Golden Gate Bridge, getting stoned (the last time) at Muir Woods on the way to Napa, falling asleep with C.S. and Delta the dog in Venice Beach…I only now remember drifting last night in a blueblack sea and overflowing calmness. Something spiritually healing about the sea. Something that resonates with Home. Something in the way the salt air murmurs and beckons me unknowingly its wholeness. It envelops, embraces me, and I cannot stop myself. I drink hungrily.

Something Like Summer

Eighth floor, big window overlooking the clutter of too much traffic, human and not. Construction on a building in the distance, and the ground in front is covered in filmy, almost transparent plastic. I spend whole days up here thinking of leaving, not leaving, wanting to leave, looking out the window instead, rarely talking to anyone else. Each time I see the building out there, see that pale glint of almost white on the ground, my heart pauses, falters. Every time I am tricked into thinking sometime in the day, while I've been trapped in this cubicle, snow has fallen. I know it's not far off now, those long, long nights and bitter days. I have always dreamed of finding an eternal summer, a place where there is little darkness and much light and life. A place defined only by the warmth of the landscape and of the people who live there. Three times today I was tricked. Three times (and more) that I'm dreaming of a place where there is no snow. Not here. Not yet.