This morning while looking at the Summer sky, I saw five hawks circling the fading moon. It seemed poetic, and slightly eerie.
Life’s twists and turns used to unsettle me, as if the hawks were waiting to descend. What could I do, frail bird, to protect myself? I’d watch them circling, even in my dreams. They always found me.
There’s no peace in hiding. There’s no rest for the beleaguered. Even a mountain is unsafe. Nothing less than invisible will do.
Animals trust me because I understand their wariness. Remembering the times I’ve felt cornered, I let them come to me.
It’s taken years, to feel safe in my own skin. There’s nothing to hide, the hawks aren’t circling to capture me. I am the moon and the hawk, as I see fit. I trust in my tough tenderness. Soaring above the mountain, this frail bird has grown great wings.