Who I am

I am a hawk with wings clipped, scratching on the ground amid the ducks, pigeons and sparrows. They are lovely birds, but prefer to avoid me.

I yearn for the companionship a flock, but don’t quack like a duck. Cooing is out of the question. A pigeon’s flight slow and labored, that’s not the flight for me; I am a hawk.

My mate and I soared the sky, floating on the winds of sight and sound, sensing God in my face. Now, he’s gone, only ashes in a vase.

As clouds go by, I sit on the ground, feeling too old to fly, so I scratch with the sparrows, who fly in flocks so grand, I can’t help, but try to join them.

Hawks don’t fit with pigeons, ducks or sparrows.

They mate or fly alone.