66: The Love Affair of the Hawk and the Toyota

They're upstairs again, that dog singing chorus. I'm not sure what it is, each time, that draws them to the kitchen window, the baying one, the yipping one, the one along for the ride. Woods surround this house, so it is hard to see anything but the shifting of the leaves, the patch of lawn streaked with dog refuse and littered with tennis balls. I'm always curious--what is it that they see?

It's been nearly four days now, four days straight, mostly alone, spent in three general locations: outdoors (flinging said dog waste into said woods with a shovel or throwing said tennis balls around the yard, careful to avoid where I might have missed with the shovel), on the sofa (watching the British version of The Office on Netflix, as I have finished off the American version up-until-now, or reading; I am now on my third book or tempering the urge to fling my laptop across the room when I get those "Web Satellite Error"s, telling me a cloud has passed over and that nasty wheel that is supposed to signal patience turns and stills), or in bed (sleeping in those odd four or five hour shifts, until Penelope decides to lick my face in little nips or Zephyr jumps up and harumphs himself onto my head or where ever he feels compelled to plop and exist).

As you can see, it's time for human company.

My parents are actually on their way, my violin, essentially untouched since high school, coming along. I don't know what has compelled me to request this; I think I had a dream last night about orchestra class, confessing I had always wanted to play the cello or viola. I prefer to harmonize.

More likely, it has something to do with the ten year high school reunion that approaches, and I am steadfastly ignoring. My Facebook page (oh, here I am, admitting the use of Facebook when I am how old?) is filling up with those familiar names, some slightly changed, people I knew or vaguely remember, wondering if I am remembered too. I am tempted to write in the margins of the memory book, "Molly Sutton Kiefer is a trapeze artist. She is currently working on revising the Great American Novel and enjoys string theory, the color purple, and long walks on the Hudson." Seriously. My cookie cutter self isn't up to one paragraph summary with family portrait paper clipped to the side. I think the whole business is a little silly.

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OK, so I went upstairs to see what the ruckus was about. Usually, nothing, though if it were my parents, I would want to release the four dogs to jump all over them. However, this is what I spotted on top of my car:



Sadly, my battery died before I could take more photos (lucky I got the one I did); I sat for near a half hour from the kitchen window, watching the hawk puff out its feathers, burrow against the warm hood, nesting, pecking, sometimes doing what looked to be a lewd mating dance. Phenomenal. Perhaps I will add kitchen window to my list of geography within these four days. (I would add walk about the neighborhood, but really, have you seen the combined tonnage?)