spots on a fawn
the smell of a burning campfire
bees on orange clover
a coyote call at dusk
random lines of Neruda
the way my babies looked while sleeping
drops of rain against the evening sun
cups of steaming coffee
warm blankets and cool nights
summer storms in the distance
memories of your long, grey braid
For many days in a row, I found bloody feathers beneath a tree. I wondered if the culprit was a hawk, or an owl, or a cat. And then yesterday, as I was coming home from the little market down the street, I saw a small sparrow hawk with the flight precision of a fighter pilot, swoop under the tree. Immediately the tree emptied of other birds with shrill shrieks and frenetic chaos.
Walking over for a closer look, I watched him. It occurred to me that maybe I should be repulsed, or saddened or even frightened. But I was awe-struck. He looked down at me, straight into my eyes and I nodded, the tiniest little head nod, before turning away.