The hawk is out there, somewhere.
You’ve known this for months, ever since you moved into this condo in the city. You catch the flap of wings in the corner of your eye. Evergreen branches bob above, hinting at its launch. Hawks are normal in New England, and now you have one as a neighbor.
Today is different. In the morning, you spot the hawk through your kitchen window. Perched in a small tree. Bigger than you realized. Seeming to watch you through the open blinds. Take away the walls and glass, and you’re maybe 10 feet away from each other. Closer than you’ve ever been.
Hours later, you take your dog into the complex’s backyard. Your sliding door grinds open. Your foot crunches into snow. In that moment, you watch the hawk take off, glide upward, a blob beneath it. A small creature, gutted in its crosshatch of talons.
In the evening, you see the scene in full. A blast of feathers. Spots of blood. A hole, where the smaller bird was shoved through the snow’s crust. Here, in the middle of a busy Northeastern city, nature doing its thing.
You Are Here 