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Journal Entry.
August 1.

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. 
I looked
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,
leaned back,
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!”


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