A hawk glides in a february gust-- searching. Searching to live. For
the simple pleasure of a stomach not empty this bird of prey bears
frigid winds for food.
Circling above…floating… and then a swift dive and strike.
A mouse, that also fends for morsals, feels talons stab into its
sides. Small lungs fill with blood as it’s lifted into the hawk’s airy
Flying, as the last bit of existence bleeds out from its mouth and
punctured ribs. Flying as the world fades from its infitesimal eyes:
infitesimal being. A mouse that was irrelevant in the world of
humans, but means everything in the world of this hawk.
I wonder if we are not like that same hawk destroying what gives
us sustenance. Like the air we breathe and pollute. Laying down
tar to dry over the same lush nature we grew from.
Like the hawk that tears red, wet strips of meat from bones we tear
away the fabric of importance from everything else but ourselves.