The Talking Hawk (45)

Yesterday I was working out on the patio in my little courtyard, my laptop resting on my thighs, my feet propped up on the chair before me. I'm not sure what made me look up from concentrating on the screen. I think there must have been a subtle shift among the birds. It was nothing like the usual commotion a hunting bird will cause. Even today, when a hawk came calling, they all took wing from the pine tree at once, a dark cloud against the sky, so many more than I would ever imagine resting there. But yesterday there was no big commotion, only a quickening, a quieting. In that lull I brought my head up, and a hawk appeared before me. He perched on the fence, almost lost his balance on the thin wooden slats. I could hear his strong talons clawing for purchase in the wood as he steadied himself. I sat up, brought my feet to the ground. My mouth hung open at the sight of him. He was so big, so beautiful. And gods, he was close. He looked around, his eyes light and intelligent. He acted like this was our ordinary routine, neighbors chatting over the fence. Then he talked. Before that moment, I'd only heard the calls hawks make in flight. But this must have been his everyday voice, the one he used to talk about the weather, about the scarcity of field mice of late, the abundance of cottontails in a certain gully. I wouldn't say he chirped. But it was very close to that, a short, deep, soft sound. He made it a handful of times as he sat near me, alert and interested. I talked back to him, but what I said escapes me now. He seemed satisfied, though, before he launched himself again and sailed away.