You are the Hawk

You are the Hawk. As I prepare to go out, do I have everything, the right clothes, gloves, hat, the right tools, will I need a knife, a shovel, the camera, is it all there, the list is endless, or so seemingly. I think about the time of year it is, no leaves on the trees rotten decaying wet, what little activity is far and few between. I love the color, all the browns, umbers, sepias, whites, grays, and subtle greens. If I go and find nothing I will still have the pleasure of that brief time experienced in a place I hold fondly. The goal if it is a goal is the raptor, the eagle, the hawk. It is everywhere but nowhere. I see it, or at least I think I do, I feel it's presence so strong but knowing if it is, is uncertain until it is certain. What I mean is when it is a crow, a pigeon, a raven or whatnot, it is put into question, is that it, look, over there, something doesn't feel right. But a hawk is a hawk is a hawk, it is only what it is and there is no mistaking it. If only it were more compassionate to the lengths taken to see it, to be there for it. Maybe it would if only it knew, but how, how can you tell this. Many things are like that hawk, there is no mistaking it's presence. You look and notice how things are like it. You go to great lengths to share it's company. But likewise things aren't. It seems rightfully placed and displaced at the same time. And it's not just it, but everything, the whole, the mud, the grayed skies, the likens, the rot of the wood, the smell of the air. I see you.

thank you for reading,
Jonathan