read
write
members
about
account

 

datedatememberrandomsearch

November 21, 2001
The sky had a quality I thought only painters could see. It was something I’d seen at MoMA or the MFA or in Chicago on Michigan Avenue. Where I can’t remember, but the setting sun painted an orange glow across the lingering clouds. Clear blue sky framed the scene and the shadows were a thousand different shades of gray.

And I had flying in front of me a hawk and hummingbird.

Unaware of each other, the smaller one sucked the juice from my garden. The hawk squawked his entrance to the valley. Gliding effortlessly high above. Scouting for more food.