Goshawk
It’s a big falcon that sits so still
it could be a twisted branch
of the tree I stood under
for ten minutes, chatting
with other birders
who had been walking
down icy trails trying to find it.
The winter light is failing
and we are about to give up and leave
when a young family —
father, mother and a four-year old —
walk out of the woods
not dressed like birders at all,
more Neiman Marcus than L. L. Bean.
I expect they will just hike past us,
but the mother kneels down
right next to me, in the snowy trail —
one arm around her daughter
and one holding binoculars —
and whispers, “There it is. Right up there!”
We turn as one, start taking photos
and angling for better views.
I look back and mom is trying
to get her child to look at the hawk
through her grown-up’s binoculars.
If she gets it right, this child will grow up
to see other Goshawks —
some defending the nest and some soaring
over canyons and pines, drunk on blood.
I think of how many Goshawks I’ve seen
in fifty years of birding — maybe 4 or 5 —
and I think without regret, almost content,
that this may well be my last one.