The Hawk and the Hammock August 26, 2013

It was the perfect afternoon for a read and a snooze on the hammock: warm with a slight breeze and fluffy clouds drifting by.  I grabbed my book, donned my sunglasses, and gathered up Annie’s comforter and pillow, and in bare feet I tiptoed past the horse poop through the mown hay to curl up for an hour or two.  Out in the field, I could see back behind the house to the eucalyptus trees lining Route 1 and to the cypress trees delineating the pasture boundaries.  The intense greens of these trees, the blue of the sky, and the white of the clouds found homes in my little nest formed by the white cotton rope of the hammock and the pulsating blue and green squares of Annie’s linen, as though the palette in the enormous dome of my surroundings had distilled itself down unto me.  

And there above the eucalyptuses was the red-tailed hawk.  I often hear his screeches and sometimes spy him perching on the fence.  But these trees are his home, his jumping off point, and every time I am the hammock, I see him resting there.  Clearly, I need to spend more time in this special spot, looking upward.