Horrible headache from early morning on, escalating despite any pills, actions, assistance I sought. Only reading, losing myself in someone’s story brought temporary bouts of relief. Since dawn, dressed for gardening but doing no more than taking brief sittings and watching the outdoors happen all by itself.
I see a doe down below weave slowly through the peach trees, disappear into the edge of the yard and tell Jim he just missed her. A half hour later she comes back. It’s a small one, he tells me; I’d told him I’d seen a large doe.
We both see the hawk fly low through the branches, land on the fence of the garden, fly off. Not a Red-tailed, that we can see. Larger, I say. No, smaller, he says. A Sharp-shinned, he thinks. I point to the Northern Goshawk in the field guide. Too big, it was grey, he says. The Sharp-shinned’s too small, I say. We compromise, maybe a Cooper’s.
What is it we see when we see the same, only different?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology