A dead hawk showed up on the road two days ago. The sight of it made me sad. Live hawks often sit on the light posts along the 422 highway near the Broadcasting road exit. How much small game runs around there I cannot say.
A hawk kite is trapped by the upper branches of a sycamore tree – its crown of thorns, its stunt man, standing in for a person on the other end of the string. When I photograph it this morning, it may be a hawk, or an eagle or a fish – further examination is required.
Many people are out walking or running this morning, exchanging Happy Thanksgiving greetings. I saw two heron, on waded in the creek so far the water was up to its tummy. The other heron, and they were both in the second mile, was on a rock that I spotted through the crook of a tree. The bird stretched tall as it could go and then flew away.
I went to the cemetery to visit my father and grandmothers. I reread the Blake quote on the HUYETT headstone. It has begun to snow with rain mixed in. I stopped to take photos of Wells Fargo signs awaiting installation. I stopped to take a picture of the road kill hawk before it gets totally obliterated by the weather and traffic.
Road kill, what kind of news is this? I will be dead soon too. I thank God and my parents for all of the blessings I have received. I want to make the most of life before I go. Doesn’t half the nation have a dead bird on the table today?