November 30sth. 2017
After I finished the previous box (“laying down her last wing”), I had serious doubts about my work. The very next day I found you right here, I saw your dark form against the light colored dried out grass, I made you easily out, amongst various other darker spots of different kind, even with my reading glasses perched on my nose, as if you told me “make me”.
A Cooper’s hawk, a juvenile, undamaged your body is, preserved by nature itself.
He was so light, the wind laid you at my feet.
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Fear is not an emotion a Hawk entertains, even for a second.
Life took you down early, your shoulders so sadly drooped.
A nail of your left toe touched your right leg, stiff, telling. I read into your posture.
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Pinned down on his perch by strings and weights, he put forward his leg:
...cut me loose or cut my wrist...
My ‘gold’ is floating away from me, I can not live like this.
The Darklings, the black bugs, haul away my hope.
It is dark here. I hear you.
Take the knife.
In ancient times the Hawk was associated with the soul, a messenger from other realms.
