A Hawk Is on My Balcony
about seven feet away from me. (Only four feet away if I stand by the door.) He’s gorgeous.
There’s a pair of red-tailed hawks that frequently hunt around here because of the abundance of squirrels and pigeons. One summer before I worked here, a pair nested on top of this building and raised a baby. When I moved into this office, the balcony door was cracked because a hawk had flown into it.
They frequently roost on some of our balconies, usually not mine.
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What good is it to
stare into a hawk’s eyes with
glass dividing us?
I can see him clearly:
his eyes, the details of his feathers, his yellow feet and long talons, and the graceful curve of his pointed beak.
Does he see me at all through the shaded glass?
Does my outline become clearer as I lean closer to the door?
Or does he look over his shoulder at me because he hears my coworker’s voice?
Have I been seven feet away from a wild hawk before?
This time, it doesn’t count because of the glass.
What good is it when he probably doesn’t know how close he is to a human,
a human who respects him?
