The hawk is present
even in its absence. The hawk's tree is there as a hole in the sky. For these past three and a half years I have made my morning drive something of a meditation; and the hawk's tree was the center of my mindfulness. Now the tree has been cut for firewood. Where the tree stood, a great emptiness.
Blue sky. Green grass. Golden sun. The infinite, intricate pattern of bark on trees. Everything rises lovely. Oh, good morning.
It is a warm morning. There is a smell of manure on the air; I cannot smell the flowers as I walk past them along the garage. Everything has green considerably since Friday, a heaving thickness in the trees.
The farmers are hard at it this morning. It is spring - time to work the fields, time to plant. The farmers work, and the sun and rain and seed do their green magic.