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.