Hawk Don't Eat Squash

Field notes, March 5th, 2014. Driving home, meditating on the belly.

It was astonishing, that flash of rusty red. All the more so at sixty-five miles an hour. I was privileged to see a hawk fulfilling its hawk-ness. I suppose it was good that it was feathers not blood. Pity that the prey had no chance to object. If not for the glass and road noise I suspect I may have heard it cry out at the fatal moment.

I was just outside a small town called Lone Jack, on my way back from a photo excursion in cow country. Quite a coincidence that I turned my head to the side, looking at the driver's side mirror as I hustled down Highway 50. It was at that moment the hawk decide to strike at some small, gray, furry things in the median. I still have no idea what the hapless prey was, but it looked vaguely like a rabbit or a rat.

The shock made me gasp. It is not that I had no idea that animals prey on other animals, it is that I was not expecting to see it on a major roadway. Especially not so close to my car. The attack happened fast, almost in the blink of an eye. There was also the awe of having witnessed something sublime. It was a peek into the workings of the world. A truth acknowledged, perhaps, or the revelation of a mystery.

I would think back to the symmetry of that incident, the relationship of eater to eaten, as I puttered in the kitchen while preparing my own dinner. Mine was nothing so dramatic as pouncing on something creature who had no idea I was coming. No, mine was less intense, involving the roasting of a spaghetti squash, the pureeing of tomatoes. If there was any drama it was in the cutting of onions and mincing garlic with parsley; there was speed and precision involved and I am pushing myself to become more professional with my knife skills.

The closest I came to emulating the hawk was to open two cans of oil-packed tuna, which I added to then marinara I was making. Certainly no talons flashing, beak parted in anticipation of a killing stroke. There was a momentary sense of dislocation, though, as I meditated on the notions of what we do to feed ourselves, to survive. It was weird.

As I shredded the squash with a fork, prior to anointing with sauce, I was struck again by the mysteries of food and eating in this life. Spaghetti squash fascinates me, watching it transform from this hard blocky thing I strained to cut, into long twirly strands that eat like noodles. Earlier, I had marveled at the fibrous net inside the squash that held the seeds. While fishing the seeds out, I felt wonder that such a thing could just grow. The seeds, too, I would later season and roast for a snack.

I know it was child-like of me, maybe even slightly naive, to be so amazed at the mysteries right in front of me. I know much can be explained by basic biology and chemistry and technical investigation. But at the moment I saw the hawk strike and the squash strands part, I was filled with the warmth of belonging, of being inside the world rather than apart from it. The hawk doesn't eat squash, and I don't prey on hawks, but for some few moments, we shared a mystery that has little to do with explanation and everything to do with simply being.

Missouri River: Meditation #1

The river lay before me, placidly darkly taupe in its whispering rush past the city. I stood on a platform overlooking the water, the heat of the sun-blasted board soaking up through my shoes. I was at the confluence of a lull in the noise of cars and trains, with no one there to share the overlook. My hands rested on a tube steel guardrail, dull brown steel clasped in my sweating hands. I could feel the humidity rising from the water.

Across the muddy divide, the far bank stood thick and green with trees. Perhaps it was heat or fatigue, but for a brief moment I felt like the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, facing the Marcomanni at the River Danube. What tribesmen were waiting for me in that dusty green, that I could vanquish with my cameras and guile to assume the title of "Germanicus?"

Ha. I chuckled. My brain was reacting in strange ways to this extended heat wave in the heart of the country. There would be no victory arch erected for me. I did not come here to conquer, only to take pictures. I suppose the triumph of my return would be the reward of captivating images, should I be so lucky and skilled to make them. For most, the film would tell all, and that would have to wait.

The river flowed on. Small sounds reached my ears: the burble of water flowing against a channel marker. Buzz of insects in the underbrush and trees. Faint murmur of traffic from the bridges in each direction. The wind picked up momentarily, a small sirocco whirling its way downriver. What I did not hear was trains. There were no trains. It dawned on my that the lack of those rail sounds were what made me feel as if it was unearthly quiet down there by the river. I turned to peer at the tracks behind me.

Beads of sweat trickled down my neck, mildly shocking me with coolness as they lodged themselves along the camera straps criss-crossing my shoulders. "Photo-bandolero!" I say to myself, film canisters my ammunition, cameras my guns. The silver-brown rails glinted in the sun, and a movie played in my head.

Along comes a train, a miles-long ouroboros of freight and coal, and I somehow managed to climb the security fence surrounding the walkway over the tracks. The diesel leviathan rumbles slowly beneath my feet. I wait, holding my breath, until a car full of coal comes into view. I lean out to jump, spread-eagled and trying not to scream. I sink to my knees in anthracite and pray my ankles aren't broken. I'm off, heading into the golden west on the back of a metal serpent, to see what I can see and bring it back. The shaman begins his dreamquest, atop a mound of coal...

I blink. The solidity of the deck beneath my feet radiates rough warmth. Above me, a bird peeps and it calls me back to earth. There is no train. There is no coal. I am alone with the exception of a lone jogger coming up the trail that parallels the train tracks. The wire of the security screen is digging into my forehead, where I had rested it while studying the tracks below. The gunmetal ribbon of the rails winds it way along the river, heading west and into the industrial district far upriver beyond the bridge.

I step back from the screen, looking around to see if I have been observed. There is no one, which is good, I think. That way the look of wistfulness that must have been on my face would remain my own. There were no trains that afternoon, no stepping off of my soul on its search for something I have yet to define. I only know it is out there, silent and beckoning, waiting for me to meet it. Someday, I will. The river knows this, rolling to its own inscrutable rhythm, and it tells me I must do the same.

That Which We Told Ourselves Was True

Of all the things under the sun, worn seashells always made Paddy think of what it meant to live a good life.  Walking the strand in the morning, mug of coffee spiked with a little cognac, he always picked up shells no matter how full his pockets.  Morrigan, his grizzled and faithful Irish setter, had learned to spot them and often would bring him prizes she had found in the sand and seaweed along the tideline.  The rough textures and nacreous innards were yin and yang, Paddy thought. And who knows what they once held.

The wind was sharp this morning.  The sky was fading indigo tinged with a silver that dappled the breakers rolling in off the Atlantic.  Paddy ambled slowly along the scalloped edge of the wrack, Morrigan looping back and forth in front like a horizontal sine wave.  Or half-infinities, the man imagined and smiled at the thought.  Briefly he considered that his dog was tracing out runes and sigils like a four-legged shaman divining his fate.  If only he could decipher the symbols, maybe he would discover that path he seemed to have missed.  For a heartbeat or two, he considered asking the dog what she thought.  The absurdity made him laugh, the sound ringing in the salt air like iron bells after a long rest.

"What say ye, Morrigan?  Is this the way, lass?" he called out to the dog.

Morrigan lifted her snout from the small but intriguing pile of shells and bones through which she had been rooting.  She cocked her head at the sound of her master's voice.  Her deep brown eyes held his gaze, her nose twitching and she began to wag her tail.  The expression on her face seemed to say "I have no idea what you mean, but I'm happy to not have an idea!"  Paddy laughed at the sweet goofiness of it.  He grew quiet and turned to gaze out over the syrupy emerald sea.  On the horizon a freighter disappeared into the sky.

"I suppose your right, girl", Paddy said to himself, "Guess we'll keep looking."

Their shadows lean in the morning sun, dog and man reflecting each other, picking up shells as their footprints slowly melted into the sea.

Rabbit Becomes a Jaguar

I told myself to behave
to sit quietly, and wait,
good things surely be mine

Winter came and winter went
I sat, still, as a frightened rabbit
while the sap rose in the trees

The heart kept beating, nose twitching
blossoms swelled, died and fell
Equinox had me rocking on my heels

Limbs growing thin and weak, sagging
I watched the animals eat the jungle
while I sucked my thumb and mewled

Sleeping to the solstice, heat rising,
A pounding heart finally awakens,
talons outstretched, grabbing life

Rush of blood to the paws
Ripply hide sheened with life
Roaring challenge to the heavens

Eyes clear and bright, deep lungs
inhale the mineral tang of winter,
Vowing to never freeze again

'Over Which Flies Dinner'

The problem with reading as much as I do is that I often can remember a particularly interesting author without a specific quote, or an interesting quote without the author, or an inkling of both. As a consequence I spend a lot of my chasing my tail when I want to reference said quote or author. This was the case today after my walk around the lake this morning.

Today has been cooling and cold, with gusty winds and a lot of clouds. Everything has that unique shade of silvery-gray that occurs on wintry days. The lake surface had wavelets all over it from the wind. The resident geese, along with their migratory cousins (or siblings or whatever they are), were out in force. There were quite a few bobbing around in the lake, with the occasional group coming in for a landing honking loudly all the time. Watching them swirl around in the sky and swimming in the water made me think of hunting. Hunting isn’t allowed at the lake of course, it is a public park, but still they looked like some mighty fine eating. I don’t hunt, but I know someone who does. Last year, I cadged a pair of the ducks he bagged over on the Eastern Shore of our fair state (motto: The Land of Pleasant Living) and made a mighty fine duck and ‘shroom gumbo out of them. Here’s hoping I can get some more this season!

Pondering hunting lead me to thinking about the terrain. The lake I frequent is in a suburban area, and it is developed with quite a few amenities. Picnic pavilions, playgrounds, ball fields, a boat ramp, concessions and a rent-a-boat dock, to name some. It is most definitely NOT an outlying cornfield or a lonely marsh somewhere. However, there are spots on the trail around it where it does feel far removed from the houses and strip malls and traffic. There are places where you can peer through the leaves and watch a heron stalking fish in the shallows. Or see a turtle poking its snout above the surface. Yesterday, I say two deer trotting along the tree line at the bottom of the hill at the east end of the lake. They were a doe and a buck. It was a young buck with a short pair of antlers sprouting from his head. Almost, but not quite, it can feel like being close to wilderness. So with that in mind I was watching the geese fly in overhead, wondering what it be like to hunt them (for eating, not for sport) when one of those half-remembered quotes came to mind. This is all I can recall, and it probably isn’t correct:

“Wilderness is a cold, damp place
Over which flies dinner”

George Bernard Shaw? Oscar Wilde? I think it was one of those two. But maybe not. I may have really mangled the quote. The memory of it made me laugh nonetheless, and after watching a flight of geese and a few ducks wing their way over my head and down onto the lake, I was getting hungry. Time to eat! So what did I do? The mighty hunter trekked over the cold, damp path on the hill, jumped into the car and went home. To scarf down a handful of Doritos. I’m pretty sure Doritos don’t fly, but if they did, I would be one helluva hunter.