Wing of a Hawk

The signal to leave is called out urgently. Blue jays spin, whistle, and gurgle. Heralds of the gray days of winter. We climb Hawk Ridge Observatory hill. The rough benches, wooden table, a simple tabernacle. It’s a late summer day, tinged with the soft reds of Fall. The lake swells, delicate white froth hushes and bubbles caressing the shore. Our guide lifts something curious out of a dusty old box. In her arms is a single great wing. With gentle gesture she invites us in. Birdsong relaying migration routes form a choir as we silently approach. This was a killing wing. Ruthless in its resolute trajectory of the dive, grasp of bloodied vole to nourish his brood, squawking from their cliff-edge nest. Each feather feels strong, indestructible, yet, this hawk was found with wings outstretched, a span of six feet end-to-end, neck broken on the golden sand. I stroke the black and grey feathers. Thin-ribbed architecture smooth, cool, the skeletal structure rustling, lifting, lifting as if it might suddenly take off. The corpse-wing caught the next gust of wind carrying the hawk-spirit on thermal spirals. High in the pale of blue sky a hawk wheels and cries, casting a shadow onto the very spot her mate died. Mourned by his love. Majestic in death. I learned about life, that day at Hawk Ridge.