The Hawk

On some mornings, through winter and spring, I would see a family of hawks in a nest on a tree with small red flowers which loomed over the metro line. The tree was taller than the bridge from which I would climb down in the morning and the nest sat at the center, from which the branches grew in different directions. Small red flowers dotted the branches which drooped over the buildings and offices clustered around the metro station.

One day I saw the mother hawk swoop down under the bridge, her wings gracefully arched over passing cars and fumes and dust. She wasn’t hunting, merely stretching out, and then returning to her nest. Sometimes I would see her perch silently in the soft sun, and because the sun was behind her I couldn’t see where she was looking, just sense her stillness.

As summer came, and the sun grew strong, the flowers dried, fell off, and were trampled to dust by passing cars. The leaves vanished, and the other day, I saw the nest like dry twigs at a slant at the center of the bare tree. The nest was empty and cars speeded below, the sun shone behind.