A red tail hawk was circling around, a giant bird flapping its wings, attempting to gain altitude. I was perhaps one of the few people who had stopped doing whatever they were doing, in my case walking home, head bent under equations, and paid attention to that flight. It flew around and around, over the street, over the buildings on both sides, twice directly over my head, searching for a thermal that would make it rise. How long did this go on? Perhaps no more that five minutes. But are minutes a proper measure of time when in the presence of power and grace?

Very soon it did veer off into the distance and found a road of the air that took it to a certain height, where it was no more than a dark dot against a blue sky. And as I kept tracing its flight, I noticed that there were two fellow compatriots (what nationality do birds have? Do they require passports or visas? ) which were similarly circling.

I am now telling you this because this whole business to me appears to be full of metaphorical possibilities – things that are capable of literally carrying one across, starting with the relation between honing the instincts and craft to be able to find a current to raise up on, and then the relation between a writer and a reader – it is always one to one, always requires an attitude of attention, and is always limited in numbers. I thought these thoughts as I watching that hawk’s flight.

It was only later, however, when I was lying in bed with the solitude before sleep, and thought of those three hawks circling high, so very high, that I saw the connection between the desire to become an artist, and the singularity that such a desire would require of such a man, such a hawk.

When he can easily And properly name The trees

That one with purplish Flowers is a Japanese Magnolia and this one With white blossoms That shine like stars Against sunlight if he Stands underneath is Obviously a star magnolia

Blooming in this too early North American spring,

He thinks this is the end Of exile, this is arriving Home.

Two young boys return After playing (explorers? Cops and robbers?) in

The wood lot and brambles Of the backyard, bare feet Covered with red clay

And laughter streaming Off their faces like rain That is falling into this

Evening’s sunlight. Their clothes hug Their young bodies,

Which are free, mostly, Of this tormenting Desire and striving,

Which has taken Root in mine. Yet the wheel of

Suffering has been Set in motion even In their case, even as

They whoop in delight When they score A direct hit with

A frayed tennis ball At the little bronze Buddha Put under that sturdy

Oak by the Zen meditator Next door. How much Metta do we all need

Here, O Enlightened One, You who have broken The rafters and the ridge

Pole of trishna, the house Builder, and have taught Men to bounce suffering

Off themselves, like this Muddy tennis ball!