It was the sudden quiet which made me look up from my garden tasks. It was
as if the stop button on the radio had been pushed and all the song and
background chatter of the birds around me went dead. A few moments later, a
coopers hawk came into view. It swerved and danced around the trees, about
mid-level, once dipping down close to the ground, then, with a few wing
pumps, rising up to the tops of the trees. It circled back, and wove around
trees like a skier on a course, zig zagging between trunks. At one point,
the hawk folded its wings to dive into a tiny gap in the branches, then
unfurled them, banked hard and cut back the other way. It was not following
any particular course, but clearly seemed to be shopping, its flight
designed to spook out some lunch. Again the hawk doubled back and pumped its
wings to gain the tree tops, then lazily soar in tight circles almost
overhead, perhaps contemplating me, with dirty knees and weeds in hand. Oh,
at that moment, how I longed to fly, to soar so effortlessly amid the tree
tops! A sunbeam broke free from the clouds and lite up the magnificant
hunter like a spotlight from god. The hawk worked its way higher, then
soared off to the east out of view. The smaller birds of my yard and forest,
glad to live another day, began singing and chattering again, and I went
back to my weeding, my head full of visions of the glory of flight.

If there is a life after this one, please oh please, let me be a hawk next
time around.

Rob Sandelin
Naturalist, Writer, Teacher
Maltby, WA

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