The hawk, golden wings rustling in a stiff, cold breeze, floats above the prairie, eyeing its prey. A tiny movement in the sea of grass probably stirred the majestic beast from the powerline that served as a makeshift perch: The hawk takes to the air with a speed that defies my poor eyesight’s ability to follow it through the sky.
It seems to halt in midair, its wings now spread wide, catching the currents of the invisible force that stirs the brush and ripples the waters of the nearby creek, the sky framing the scene in a background of china blue and wispy clouds, floating like ghosts in a sea of eternity.
Three longhorns stand by a fence near the powerline. The red one, his face marked with a narrow ribbon of white that looks like a desperate West Texas stream in summer, pokes his snout through the wire, turning as if to follow the course of the mighty bird of prey, as symbolic of this land in its own way as the rangy, ornery longhorns themselves.
The longhorn’s glance seems like an act of acknowledgement from one king to another, though the hoofed monarch lost his plains kingdom long ago, becoming a logo for sports teams and “Cow Town” itself, instead.
Maybe he is saying goodbye.
The golden missile darts for the target and disappears from view, then is back again, heading for the powerline loft with something in its talons I can’t make...