A red-tailed hawk visits my house. I often notice him soaring overhead on cloudless afternoons. I admired him as he catches air currents and drifts in slow circles. One day I arrived home to find him resting on my garage roof. I stepped from my car, and we regarded each other for a long time.
He has perched on the gas grill on the patio, in the maple tree outside my window, and the white fence post on the property line. Other days he does a fly-by, swooping past my windows to let me know he is watching. He is a very serious fellow, but I enjoy our talks. Our discussions are not lengthy, but nothing interrupts them. He occupies my undivided attention.
Writing is like speaking with the hawk. It consumes my thoughts. It demands focus and concentration, the ability to see the adventure as it stretches to the…
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