March 23, 2013

The rough-legged hawk perches on his telephone pole, the spring storm swirling. It’s always the same comfortable pole, the third one down the lane. Anyone can see he’s restless, shifting from one leg to the other, ruffling his feathers. His mind soars beyond the scuffle of voles burrowing under the meadow’s sheath of snow. Soon the storm clouds will retreat, and a blue halo of sky will let in the pull of the Arctic Midnight Sun and like every spring before in his difficult life, he will spread his wings, swoop low over the warming earth before turning north. As he takes his leave, robins, bluebirds, gold finches and sparrows will arise south of us somewhere as we wait for their voices to fill our empty hearts.

phone pole1.

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