There’s a hawk that spends a lot of time yelling at us. When we come out the back door, when we walk
in the cemetery, and sometimes we can hear him when we’re watching the
Yankees. The truth is, I’m not sure he’s
yelling at us, or just yelling. He may
be calling for his girlfriend, or alerting other hawks he’s in the
neighborhood, or complaining about a stomach ache. I’m not sure if it sounds angry or lonely. I don’t speak hawk.
It made me realize that there are a lot of languages I don’t
know. I’m not even aware of many of the
priorities driving others. Even others that walk around on the ground and don’t have
wings. It’s scary how arrogant we are,
isolated in our assumptions. And it’s so
rare that we ever even notice how our small attitudes shrink our
environments. The glory is that it
doesn’t take a lightening bolt to open us to bits and pieces of truth. All it takes is a hawk’s cry.
Chris named him Herbert.
I wonder if he likes the name. He might be a Red Sox Fan. He does have a red Tail.
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