February 1, 2017 in Trinidad, CO
on the Shelf
An evening of Myth and Poetry
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After months of conspicuous absence,
after a summer only
of crows and doves,
after a long period
between promise and action,
the hawks have returned to my skies.
In the early part of the season,
I saw them every day.
It was an unusual walk outside
that they weren't soaring
on the thermals,
calling to each other across the valley,
bedeviling smaller birds,
or was it the other way around?
They were ever-present,
flying low as I walked the road,
and maybe it was my imagination,
my human tendency to anthropomorphize,
but, in my mind at least,
their mission was to prompt me
into getting down to the novel's rewrites,
the novel that features one of their own.
How could they know?
I hadn't advertised the book
or its contents, its characters,
hadn't spoken of it
much beyond my circle…
…and hawks can't even read!
But there they were,
strafing me even,
whenever my thoughts would turn
to Amalia the hawk
and a to western Templo.
Then the Faire-run started,
and my attention was taken away
So, still, the story went untouched
and the hawks disappeared,
maybe because of some natural cycle
I know nothing about,
but maybe because they were disappointed,
resigned to my allowance
of other pursuits to get in the way
instead of bringing the story to light.
I don't know what's in a hawk's perception,
what they see and know.
I can only imagine
that, from way up there in the sky,
they can see quite a lot,
more than we humble,
earthbound creatures can.
Maybe they see the bigger picture
and know when they have to be patient,
know when to bide their time
because they can see also
that the thing they want
is coming down the pike
and will arrive
on its own schedule.
Well, arrive it has,
revisions made and done,
query letters winging their way
to those who will help
with the next flight plans,
and the hawks are back,
above the field
just outside my office window.
Their return is welcome.
©2016 Annette Meserve