Now
I’m not convinced this had anything to do with it but we were driving
in the woods one still spring day
when I spotted a
hawkinflight
and pointed it out to her. Shara-my-only
was maybe five.
Lookathim, I whispered, awestruck as I was
and am by such wildlife. Hoping my sense
of that would successfully communicate
itself to my child. So I pulled to the side of the road,
killedtheengine
and rolled down her window so she might hear
thatraptor’skeen.
Lookathim.
How I wanted to give her
a hug right then, a loving squeeze at that
crucial moment, but figured– correctly, I still believe–
it would distract her from what I’d
set her attention toward
in the first place. So I purposely
forfeitedthatembrace.
Her back was to me, she never knew. I’ll never forget.
The whole thing lasted all of three minutes, when he
vanishedagainstgreyclouds. Birds
are
relatedtothedinosaurs,
I told her on the ride back. They’re like them in a lot of ways.
Some dinosaurs evenhadfeathers.
Now
she’s 26, and when I’m at these
RenaissanceFairsLibrariesNatureCenters for these
programspresentations she writes
assemblescreatesdemonstrates herself, dressed in
(she calls it ‘frontier Tolkien’)
buckskindenimtallbrownboots,
bladeonherbelt,
she couldn’t look less like her mother if she tried yet there’s my wife in
allherglory,
(her apprentice dressed the same, cute girl
a few years younger than Shara, she even resembles her
a little; not entirely sure what’s going on there but
Shara-my-only smiling is what matters),
and I hear the audience
whisperinfascination at a Peregrine
falconslowlycircling
almostakilometerup or gasp as an
owlospreyRussianeagle they’ve all just noticed
glidessoundlesscentimeters
above their heads on its return
to her left-hand leather gauntlet, I think
could have been medicine might have been law
might have been music
might have been anything but it landed on
of all things
falconry. And I remember
how with such openness she
tookupthethread
that day I stopped the car. How she was instantly
fine to just perch, turned in her seat,
hands on the lowered glass, chin on her knuckles,
gazingoutandup in almostreverentsilence to
observe a barely moving winged dot
patrol its patchofearth, its columnofsky,
rotatingtheplanet
beneath it with its talons.
Now
I can barely keep
myprideinside.
It’s like holding back a shout. She’s beautiful, she’s happy– Look what you had a hand
in creating, I tell myself. I want to
standonmychair and
pointintheair and proclaim: I helped!
While these prehistoric slaughterers of hers–
understand these birds are huge, all
sinewbeakandtaloninstinct as they are they could
removesomeone’seyeballs should she
train them to do so– (an eagle’s eyes
are as large as a human’s, she and her helper
readily inform me) consider me with the
sameprogrammeddisdain they seem to
save for most humans notmydaughter. To her, they’re awaiting
theirnextcommand.
To me (to us) they seem to say:
Letusprey.
######
Russ Paladin roams the Upper Mississippi River Valley, where he works with kids and canines, plays hard rock music, watches old monster movies, and seeks out beauty in all its many guises. He will read anything that holds his interest.