The love of a mother, eternal in its silent strength,
never more permanent than when the hawk descends,
claws outstretched, claiming the child.
We feel the pain, an ache deep in the marrow,
a sorrow that ripples through the quiet of night,
where reflections in the juvenile mirror reveal
the cruel truth held in the grip of the great hawk.
We project our own stories,
labeling the hawk the predator, the mother’s child the prey,
knowing too well how this tale ends.
We feel it, the bitter conclusion etched in our bones,
and our hearts swell with an ancient antipathy,
a primal urge to save the vulnerable from the inevitable.
Yet, as we stand in the darkness,
we recognize the inescapable order of the cosmos,
where such scenes are replayed in every corner of existence,
a rhythm that never falters, persistent in its consistency.
Doesn’t it make sense?
This is the thread that binds us to nature,
a bond that we cannot sever, no matter how we strain.
In the depths of our modern discontent,
we may have lost the divine essence,
becoming mere instruments of reproduction,
an infestation of fleeting desires, an exchange of selves,
a connection that mirrors the endless dance of predator and prey.
And as we watch the hawk,
we cannot help but see ourselves,
locked in the same primal dance,
tethered to an intelligence that seems so distant, so cold.
Why would nature be like this, so devoid of compassion?
Why can there not be a gentler way,
a path more aligned with the love we seek?
Yet, within me, the answer has already formed,
etched into the silence that follows my cries for justice.
For as soon as I utter the word “greed,”
I have conjured its counterpart,
and in defining the “long,” I have given shape to the “short.”
To know the hero’s journey,
to truly grasp the beauty of the ending,
one must understand the shadow that casts its long reach.
The story could have ended differently,
where the hawk, unsuccessful, starves in the cold of night.
And somehow, that seems fitting,
more in line with a universe we wish to be full of love.
But that does not hold either,
for I do not wish the hawk to perish,
nor the night heron to meet its end.
I want life to blossom in all its forms,
a world where love reigns, untouched by death.
Yet here I am, forced to witness,
to listen to the mother’s cries,
to watch as the hawk fulfills its role,
the heron’s eyes wide with fear,
a scent of terror hanging in the air.
None of it settles easily,
a weight that presses down on the soul,
filling the heart with grief, anger,
and yet, in the depths of this turmoil,
I know, as I have always known,
this is the way.