It’s an autumn afternoon at the park, near dusk —
the air a brew of pine and moldering leaves.
My five-year-old son has spied a red-
tailed hawk ripping flesh from its kill —
what appears to be an unfortunate squirrel.
It takes the hawk a long time.
With its hooked beak, it pulls a single
vermilion thread of flesh, raises its head
to cast a leveling glare about its realm,
then bends for the next sliver of meat.
The hawk’s talons are efficient tools.
They grip its prey hard against the cold earth –
even now, when the there is no doubt
the creature is dead — its breath
the sigh of autumn wind, its flesh
the light reflected off bone. We want to know
if the victim is the albino squirrel favored
by the children whose laughter and shouts
we hear from the nearby playground.
My son circles in closer. Crouched low,
he moves with stealth from tree to tree, padding
on fir needles, newly dropped. When spotted
by his quarry – dark wings lift, flare white – he retreats
to cover. He waves a hand for me to come in closer.
When he turns his palm to me, I halt.
The other parents are telling their children,
“Stay back – don’t look.” They are
guiding them away down the asphalt path.
When I see my son from this vantage,
I do not see the city boy I birthed, but
one of his ancestors, who stalked the forest
with blade and bow in search of food. I sense
the wisdom of the old ones in his every move —
and so I let him go, and wait for him
to circle back to me.
