Yesterday–that would be the last day of July–my fourteen-year-old, over-six-foot-tall grandson and I were deadheading my very tall rose bush—a bush that grows higher than the eaves of our garage. Stretching out his long arms carefully so as not to get snagged by a thorn, he’d snap the long-handled lopper and a towering branch with clusters of hips would topple down the slope to where I stood cutting the branches to make them shorter to fit into our green recycling cart.
I noticed a sort of silence—a pause in the pruning sounds.
up from my work and there he stood above me, face turned
skyward, eyes shaded with his hand against the glare of the sun.
“It’s a hawk.”
His words were matter-of-fact, spoken with the confidence of one who knew.
I stood up,
and looked upward.
High above us, gracefully soared a winged creature.
I took his word for it being a hawk.
He’s the one who’s filled a sketch book with hawks, falcons, and eagles in great detail.
John Burroughs’ words fit the moment:
“August is the month of the high-sailing hawks.
The hen hawk is the most noticeable.
He likes the haze and calm of these long, warm days.
He is a bird of leisure and seems always at his ease.
How beautiful and majestic are his movements!”