On the Eternity of the Hawks

I.

I think that one may find eternity in visions of the great hawk over the golden fields.

A salvation granted on his broad wings.

For how many countless ages has he sent his voice over this golden field and to the distant hills?

For how many countless ages has he beat his powerful wings and set his sails loose in the skies, his murky black silhouette set against the cold blue of the ether?

For how many countless ages have the great black cottonwoods given him respite for his tired bones?

For how many countless ages has he watched the blue streaks of swallows flitting to and fro over the swaying grasses of the fields?

For how many countless ages has he played out that timeless dance between the great hawk and the life of the valley?

Yes indeed, there is eternity in this timeless drama of the hawk and this golden meadow.

II.

In times like these one may perhaps see more clearly what it is to be human.

Stripped naked, if only for a moment, of the petty attachments of daily life.

We stand, if only for a moment, before the vastness of eternity and the smallness of ourselves.

But one melody. But one note. In the symphonies of the earth.

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