movement

I hiked Hawk Mountain last week with a good friend. Near the middle of our hike, we sat on the top and watched hawks -- 20 or 30 of them -- swooping up and down, in between trees, near the mountain, between hills. They seemed to be everywhere, effortlessly gliding through the air. There was power in their flight.

Apparently, Hawk Mountain is named for the many hawks that are naturally drawn to it; there is something in the air flow, the position of the mountains. They know where the wind moves and supports flight, and are compelled to be in it.

I should like to be like those hawks -- unaware of anything else but the inner pull toward the Wind. I should like to dive into where the Wind moves, to catch the drift, to flap my feeble wings from time to time in flight.