Dusk, Stonington Point
Oil on deep-cradled canvas, 16x20
The days are getting shorter, and I feel the tug of winter settling in.
I know it is a million weeks away, but every day brings it closer. In the mornings I sit here and look out my window and before I remember, I wonder if it's storming, or if today is the day that the sun will not come up.
Hawks nested in the driveway this spring, and had two babies. The parents were vocal, watching us and announcing our presence and their own for the whole summer. We watched the parents build the nest, catch a multitude of creatures to feed themselves and their babies, and then we watched as the young hawks learned to hunt.
I saw one of them in the yard one day, sort of stomping around on the grass. I thought he had caught something, but in fact, as I looked closer, I could see that he had not. I think he was trying to step on bugs.
I watched him, and honestly, I began to think he was developmentally disabled, too stupid to last in the world he lives in, the world of eat or be eaten.
One afternoon, he caught a worm, and flew off with it, clearly not quite understanding what to do.
Days later, he caught a vole.
Days after that, they all were gone.
I cling to these hot, bright days, live on the glory of sunflower fields, and day lilies and the delightful presence of the summer's crop of hummingbirds, and the knowledge that all of this will go, and will come back again.
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