The Hawk


Toby Heathcotte

    The man stood silently, hands in back pockets, one boot resting easily on the sun-exposed redness of a rock nestled in new snow.  He read the words a hawk wrote on the still blue sky, "Welcome Home."
    The man laughed, brushed snow from his knee, and spanned the sky.  He shook free from the corduroy coat the sun had made confining and raised his arms.  The red rock gently pushed one foot; the snow compressed beneath the other.
    The man glinted in the bright sun and soared into the air.  He swooped and curved and dived on the high blue paper, "I am."
    The hawk, his kinsman, laughed.

 To Author's Page