When a Bird Falls from the Sky

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There are some stories that just need to hang for a while – as threads and beginnings of the same fugal looping of life, and the inexplicable moments that sometimes come in small and blinding flashes.

The story of the hawk that was in my freezer when I returned from the Camino is a long story. I knew what it was, and I had been told what I was to do with it.

But I don’t climb high, that is not something that I do.

That hawk stayed in the freezer until after I happened upon an eagle one warm June day in 2010, when I was out for a walk in the woods searching for a railway tunnel with my friends Harold and Marleen,

These birds, these birds.

Harold was my witness, he said so.

And then there is the strange and almost-not-believable story of a book club and a little brown thrush, feet crossed on the threshold with a still-vibrating warmth in its belly.

What?   I said as I turned to face her.

Is she alive?  She said.

Did you know her?  I said.

Yes.  She said.  A long time ago.  

Did my first feather come from your hawk?  I said.  

Yes.