A medium large hawk, mostly white underside, soared over cemetary of embracing skeletons toward bare, gloomy trees (wet, dark, purple-leaved red maples) blocked from a bright sunset, the spring turning freezing. The bird flying from before me and to the left, or north northwest, toward the left, or west. There was a child playing in a yard, and I was turning to avoid the other person until I saw the hawk again, now to my left but flying toward the east, soaring.
A soldier made the sacrifice through an explosion, and a large mechanical vulture collected the remains. The bird did not kill anything, of course: another human would. It is uncertain why the metal buzzard was the first invention, before even a knife or sword, or pen.
Death can feel overwhelming. Remembering this advice may help guide your conduct.
This morning, birds flying all about backyard or visible in the sky from the bench seat. In ten minutes: robins, sparrows, and cardinals. And a small hawk soared among tall oaks in the background. I don't know what it all meant.
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