HAWK WALK

On my walk this noon, I was startled by a hawk being dive-bombed by eight black crows. Despite the barrage, Hawk refused to move from her spot at the base of an old oak tree, her squirrel-catch in her talons.

I couldn’t stand it. I was already pissed off I hadn’t swum in days, and was in a foul, depressed mood. (Only fellow water-babies would understand how a beached dolphin like me feels.)

I marched over to the tree, shouted at the crows and waved them off. At first, they ignored me; but then moved to the branches, crowing loudly. Only fifteen feet from Hawk, I gave her a wave, like an old friend, before returning to the paved path to begin my walk. But the crows immediately dive-bombed again, so I returned, waved them off, and stood my post. Hawk stared at me like I was either a lunatic or her dinner guest. I wondered why Hawk refused to fly away—it’s the closest I’ve ever been to a wild hawk. Eventually, the crows flew to trees further and further away, until they disappeared over hundred-foot-high tree tops.

I distanced myself about fifty yards from Hawk, hoping she’d eat that damned squirrel and fly off with her catch. She ripped into her prey. I took it as a good sign, and walked the perimeter trail. When I circled back, Hawk was nibbling her prey.

“Can’t you eat any faster?” I asked her. “Of course not.” I answered for her. The coast appeared clear, so I exited the park and headed for home, telling a neighbor about Hawk. In a moment, we heard the crows, and I trucked back to the tree where Hawk was again being dive-bombed by the crows. I waved them off more easily this time, but they only flew to a tree a few feet away, and stopped crowing. Silence. Those crafty crows were waiting me out. 

I was Hawk’s sentry, while she ate lunch. I was thirsty and hungry too, missing breakfast, but T.S. for a sentry.  To pass the time, I performed squats and lunges. Mountain poise. Paraded back and forth on the path. Okay, Hawk. Hurry it up. I gotta go.

Finally, over an hour into my attempt at nurturing nature, Hawk, squirrel remains in her talons, flew into a tree on the forest edge. Naturally, I had to go say goodbye to her, especially since she flew in the direction of the crows. There she was, perched on a branch above the paved walking path. “You ate that whole squirrel already?” I asked her.

Hawk hopped one foot to the left, picked up the squirrel in her talons, and offered it to me, nearly dropping it onto the ground.

“No thank you, Hawk. You finish it.”

Hawk ripped into the squirrel.

“I didn’t mean to rush you.” I backed away. “Bye Hawk.”

Back in my nest, I made a turkey sandwich and ripped into it—my teeth like a hawk’s beak—the turkey tasting nothing like raw squirrel. But how would I know?