The old man sucks air past his few remaining teeth and feels . . . adventuresome. He feels like a brave old man. At least as brave as his great-grandfather was. The brave old man strokes his cat as a few leaves fall on the doorstone. The cat chases the leaves.
Traffic flows with a rush on the wet highway.
The rush is louder than in past years at this time of lengthening night, but the old redtail is only half mindful, is attending chiefly to some deep-seated thrill at flight along the coastline. Smaller birds stop here in numbers, dodge groups of people, chatter in foreign languages. Traveling, traveling to places of higher skies and heavier air. Boats everywhere, the old bird observes. The hawk sees a dead squirrel on the seaside rushing road, attended by a crow.