A blue jay just does his thing. Flies, eats some berries, pecks at your window, then dies. A familiar nagging pulses like a tumor between its invisible ears. The sky lightens swifter now, and away south of east. Even now the two big fledglings are off somewhere, hunting early.
Mist lies low in the passing front.
The snag trembles slightly as the hawk's open wings catch air. Hills and rivers and hours later, the old redtail approaches the place of people at the wide water's edge. Collar up, cap snug, he muses, cups his mug, realizes he's slept well for a change, and begins his customary inspection of the hillside. The season's chill makes the coffee taste richer on his old man's tongue. It's a gray morning, and a wet breeze ruffles the old man's beard.