Early on this cold, sunny morning, I went for a hike on the home trails, and then sat for a while with the honey bee hives. All the bees, of course, were inside keeping warm; no activity to watch. So I simply sat and listened. Soon a few blue jays and a red-bellied woodpecker called. And I could just hear a gray squirrel lightly screeching. Nearby there was a red-headed woodpecker on its overwintering territory. Official winter was still a few weeks away, but there had already been two rather substantial snow falls (rare for November in central Illinois); I resisted imagining this as a harbinger of a tough winter.
Through the leafless black locust trees, I searched the vast blue skies for any sign of waterfowl, but could see and hear nothing except the faint sound of a truck one half-mile away on the highway. My thoughts were simple: After my coffee is empty, I’ll head back home for some breakfast.
Backyard at the bee hives (note the chair through the cedar branches)
Then suddenly a dark gray, silent streak of a sharp-shinned hawk shot past at eye level only a few feet away. Hidden by a cedar tree, the hawk must not have seen me; otherwise, it would not have chosen such a close flight path. But in less than two seconds, it passed down the trail and away. If I had been facing another direction or blinked my eyes, I would have missed the hawk completely; not even the air through its wings made a sound that my ears could hear. And I wondered, How much have I missed over the years when my eyes and ears were focused elsewhere?
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