tell me i am not the only one watching

at twenty to eight in the morning i am scanning fields the color of brittle corn. there is no snow, yet i am searching for white; the white of feathers, the white of the owl that began its journey to me last spring and has yet to arrive. i wait and i scan and i drive. suddenly, there is white, a flash of wing, and i am swerving to the side of the road. it is not the owl, it is the hawk. the harrier hawk; the one that sweeps low over the color of brittle corn taunting the mice and the hares. she is exquisite and brief. she will not stay long. i watch and it matters not if i am late.

at three after five in the evening i am scanning the eastern sky. it is peach over blue, whispers and ripples of cloud covering a waxing moon. i can see in the mirror it is fire behind me, but i am driving east and the cars are coming fast and i have peach over blue. at last i am driving north and the fire is burning on my left. i am swerving to the side of the road, again. the sky is the rival of all biblical sunsets, bursting in yellow and that rose-peach-orange hue that has no name. the blinker ticks and the cars rumble by and i stare at the fire that changes by the second. i say thank you three times out loud.

there is no screen, flat or hand held, that can match the color of brittle corn or harness wind under a wing or wash the sky with fire. tell me i am not the only one watching.