I noticed the hawk because of the loud cry that sounded like a squeaky door being opened one way only, the same sound being made by the door to the armory that it was perched in front of. Perhaps the door had called it there. My friend and cohort K believes that to humans, angels might look like flocks of birds, an idea that happily escaped the suppression of my literal mind and sunk deep to the core, every flock's passing, a laying on of hands. And as wild and brutal as this raptor is, its proximity created the sense of having witnessed and been blessed by the perigee of a heavenly body. The mercy of the beauty doesn't come without the wildness, and in its presence it already feels as if those claws have instantly seized my sense of the banality and decrepitude of life and savagely shredded until all I can see is the latticed luminosity of the hills and the stones and trees and all the slow and fast work of nature.
1 comment:
I misread this at first, as, "To angels, humans look like flocks of birds," and that made great sense to me. Second time I read it, I read it correctly, but maybe both are true.
Post a Comment