The little hawk leaned sideways and, tilted, rode the wind. Its eye at this distance looked like green glass; its feet were the color of butter. Speed obvious-ly, was joy. But then, so was the sudden, slow circle it carved into the slightly silvery air, and the squaring of its shoulders, and the pulling into itself the long, sharp-edge wings, and the fall into the grass where it tussled a moment, like a bundle of brown leaves, and then, again, lifted itself into the air, that butter-color clenched in order to hold a small a small, still body, and it flew off as my mind sang out oh all that loose, blue rink of sky, where does it go to, and why?
Mary, are you trying to write yourself out of a job? Who needs poets if we just offer up to the world our attention? Indeed! Who needs ministesr, monks, priests, counselors, new age therapists, or even God? We have hawks, mice, the hunters and the hunted – all of reality is there for our grasping as we touch the earth and reach for the sky.
What job would you lose if others paid attention?