A pair of Red-tailed Hawks lives on the ridge by the sheep.
I see them often, sailing the currents.
Working outside, the quiet cadence of labor blends with the wind, the buzzing, the bird song, and the cry of the hawks.
Dropping the noise of mankind, I slip into their world.
I never saw the hawks while I was sick.
I feared they had died, fallen to accident, age, or poison.
Reason told me it was I who had changed.
Not dwelling in quiet labor, I did the necessities, hurrying home.
Yet I watched the sky and listened.
This year they have returned to my world, or I to theirs.
As their absence ate at my wellbeing, their presence assures me.
No reason, really, just that they are there, magnificent.
©Maria Amodei
