Keee!...Keee!... Keee! 7 AM, there he was, up in the high branches of a pecan tree, great freckled bird missing most of his tail feathers. Tail-less red-tail. I focused the binoculars. Though his head was facing north, I could see he was angling a glance my way.

Hawks have so much carriage, so much attitude with their powerful heads and hooked beaks. They are not humble birds. I swear, this guy looked down at me with irritable disdain before he swooped low to the north out of sight. With the state of his feathers, understandable. Being caught bedraggled can foster disdain, perhaps disguising embarrassment. I was sorry to see him go. His abrupt departure seemed to stimulate a funk of many layers.

Late in the afternoon, ribbons of black ash from burning cane fields littered the air and ground. There was the man with a fistful of dead ducks. Life was curiously in the pits.

But then, dragonflies and other insects appeared overhead. Seemed to me doors were opening, things were shifting, no longer mired. I was seeing the possible as no longer impossible. (Ok-so how many people see a bunch of bugs as promising? raise your hand...)

As light dimmed to dusk, a northern harrier, handsome gray hawk, crossed the pasture and out of sight before me.

A minute passed—I really wanted to see that harrier again. He returned, without keeping me wondering, the same confident glide back.

His friendly second pass left me light of heart, with conviction in my new optimism.

(I read that the northern harrier is known as gavilon ratonero in Spanish, busard Saint-Martin in French.)