Trajectory
Once, on a drive north along the coast, you decided to count how many hawks you saw, sitting or flying. You counted over 60 in just four hours. Maybe less, maybe more; sometimes when they’re so high up it’s hard to tell the hawks from the turkey vultures. You never tire of seeing birds of prey. It’s lucky each time, to catch sight of that powerful, distinctive silhouette, especially when they are still.
Once you saw one dead, on the side of the mountain road driving into Santa Barbara. You asked L. to pull over so you could look at it. You asked him to pull a feather off for you, giddy with guilt and excitement. You irritate people by pointing them out. Look, look. It’s astonishing to you that they don’t care to look. In another life, you think, you might have been a falconer. In this life, you wish you’d figured that out sooner.
Once you saw one dead on the sidewalk in downtown Los Angeles. It was out of place and sad. So large and whole, you imagined it ate a poisoned rat, or struck a window and fell. What does a dead hawk falling out of the sky look like? Did it spin, headfirst? You wished you’d seen it.