I feel American, inappropriately not dressed in red, white and blue but scarlet and green, just like a hummingbird, a gentle bird that gets aggressive in the later days of summer.
The hawk swoops in on silent wings—there is no better metaphor than that, though it is cliche’. Almost set to land upon the snowball bush that hides within its pinky white bouquets my friend, the lady cardinal who came to dine at the freshly filled feeder, hiding too within the boughs. He spots me as his talons already seek the uppermost branches, sweeping off without a pause to rest in darkness of the border trees.
What can I do? I bear witness to a natural act of predator and prey, and yet my own presence is acknowledged as a superpower in the game. I am a watchdog, guarding smaller denizens against the mighty who would have them for their breakfast; protector of the lesser as I am the strongest enemy of all. Shall I leave and let the inclinations of the strong crush hopes and life from those with which I’ve felt affinity? Shall I stay and take the necessary measures to insure their safety and their freedom, though I walk with ponderous steps?
I leave. And guiltily I listen for the strangled cries that tell me I was wrong.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology