Looking up, our cat presses himself low,
belly to pavement as the
shadow of a hawk passes beside him
on the driveway.
I watch him from the kitchen window
while the coffeepot hisses behind me.
I was at Cascade Park the other day,
just past the ford, while two hawks screamed,
tipped their wings to turn in order to make
better use of the currents.
In the living room,
my son's face is illuminated,
technologically angelic,
his thumbs making quick work
of an animated task
whose purpose eludes me.
Social media has enabled me
to maintain a sense of connection, and yet
spend days interacting with no one.
The coffee pot makes a clicking sound
that causes me to become unsettled,
like water leaking, or machinery
gone wrong.
I can no longer watch a plane
tip its wings without
at least a small feeling of unease, and
realized the other day that even watching
hawks do the same
increases my anxiety.
