Hawks

Many of us who live in the country have our lives punctuated by sightings of wild things. We like to think we’re civilized, eating with a spoon, paying our bills, opening the door for a friend, but then a row of bats is dangling from the gutter, or a group of deer is gleaning under an old apple tree. Or, a bobcat saunters around the fire pit, hopping from one tree stump to the next, or a praying mantis’ compound eyes stare at you through the screen door.

It remains a thrill at dusk to follow the trot-trot-trot of a fox prowling down the Mt. Pollux foot path, or to watch while standing still as a stone, as a bushy-tailed skunk waddles along the outside of the hoop house, its wispy fur pressing against the plastic, while I am inside about to pick kale. Once while sitting at the kitchen table late at night, I hear scampering on the front porch, mmm bigger than a squirrel, wait, bigger than a groundhog, oh my god it’s a bear, and now it swats at the birdfeeder like it’s a punching bag, and leaves muddy pawprints on the dark-stained shingles before ambling down the driveway in a bit of a huff. I am reminded how we people moved into these creatures’ places, not the other way around. Wildlife sightings and interactions heighten my senses and pin me to the moment in ways I love: curious behaviors, unfamiliar sounds, unexpected beauty.

Because of my PICC line, I can’t swim and they don’t want me running or lifting…