Post Fall

The hawk, according to a bona fide Forest Ranger (who saw a photograph of it sitting on the new birdbath) is an immature red-tailed hawk.

I am less certain, given the narrow white lines between the narrow black horizontal bars and the lack of any tinge of rust on his tail. Perhaps he is a red-shouldered hawk in the making. His tail is very much the same as the picture in the Audubon bird book of the red-shouldered hawk, but then again, he also looks an awful lot like a marsh hawk. And the Ranger would say, if it's immature, it could be any of them!!! The hawk is hard to photograph. Against the grey winter branches and dead leaves, he is invisible.

A creature of fixed and immutable habit, appearing on the same branch of the same sweet gum tree at the same time (just after dawn) to swoop down twice to the wooden post supporting the muscadine vine and retrieving, each time, a giblet, which T places on top of the support each night before he goes to bed. He, too, (T), is a creature of fixed and immutable habit. I am not. Every morning finds me shocked to discover that I am still alive and have to get up and go do something. The trick is trying to remember what that was (or is, depending.)

We tried leaving various other scraps and food items but discovered that the hawk was only interested in the raw (and preferrably semi-frozen) innards of chickens. If, by chance, T forgets to put out his (the hawk's) breakfast, the hawk alights on his same branch, but instead of swooping down, ascertaining that there is no bloody bit awaiting him, arches his wings, and complains, loudly, about the lack of service, inconsistency, and generally sorry state of the annoying and hairless creatures that are supposed to provide his morning vittles .

His complaints are nothing that could be confused with the irritated twitterings of the rest of the bird population when their favorite seed is no longer in one of the many bird feeders around the yard. Oh, no. These complaints are a sort of bone-chilling shriek, with the implied threat to life and limb of some pitiable songbird who will be his breakfast, instead. And of course, I am then overwhelmed with guilt. It is by then a fatal error, and not to be remedied.

I understand now, I suppose, the motivation of those who have tried to appease the gods by sacrifice. A plaintive wail, "Please eat this, instead of me." We are merely mice who have arrived at the silly notion that we have evolved. And His screams do indeed evoke some ancient angst.

He is, to those my fragile songbirds-- the sort of birds that my beloved Wayward One once rescued from the jaws of a cat-- a featherless baby with crimson skin, so red I thought it was sunburned and was laughed at by the ornithologist at the zoo, who met us that Sunday afternoon to take custody and eventually to release back into the bushes more or less from whence it came -- a monster with a wingspan ten times theirs, a demon who drops silent from the sky and plunges His talons into their still beating hearts, the embodiment of Death sudden, Death inescapable, but Death, which, is perhaps also most merciful in that life is over before there is even recognition that life is endangered.

Winter is, of course, is the season of Death. There can be no illusion during this time that we can survive without our customary props.

We --or rather, to be honest-- he-- maintains an enormous pile of firewood, although we almost never light a fire in the fireplace anymore. The firewood is insurance for when the ice coats the power lines and the trees fall across the road and it is cold, dark, wet, and getting colder. We don't live where these conditions are such that Death is a guarantee-- a simple pile of blankets would keep the two of us entirely confortable in all but the absolute worst of weathers-- and if we were to include the three cats and two dogs in the pile, there would no doubt be sufficient heat to keep water from freezing. But... the firewood means that civilization is maintained. With a fire, there can be hot water; with hot water, there can be everything.

T is able to do Tai Chi, which is a wonderful thing to see again. I have started to learn, and find it exquisitely calming. Because my arms move in counterpoint to my legs, it is impossible for me to do this without maintaining focus. After an hour and a half of having had no other thought in mind than are my hands & feet doing what they're supposed to be doing? Being released fills me with a sense of peace and relaxation that I have only felt after, say, hiking over the top of Mt Washington and finally being able to take off my pack and boots, fire up the stove and eat a hot meal . (Or maybe not quite that good, but certainly worth devoting several hours to after work.) My goal is to be able to rmember all the moves and start practicing in random public places, (shopping malls, grocery stores) wearing a T-shirt that says "No, I'm not Chinese".

One of the joys of being old and grey is that no one gives a rat's ass what you do and they are afraid to try to stop you.

This January has brought many returns-- a prodigal child; good conversations with two old friends, one of whom will be leaving here to return home across the ocean; and a few other utterly bizarre exchanges with people from my past. All of which have left me with very mixed emotions.

Fortunately, there is no action item requiring my decision. And I am old enough to be able to truly appreciate just having mixed emotions. Good solid card carrying members of the ruling party that they are, they will undoubtedly make the same decision as their fearless leader and agree with one another to send in and pay for as few more warm bodies as they think they can get away with, knowing, when they lie down at night, that this route cannot possibly salvage the situation.

Gen. McClellan lacked what was needed, too, and 400,000 more Union troops wouldn't have solved that problem, either.

But procrastination is always the popular choice when faced with an unpleasant task.