What do you think your spirit bird must be? Asked Godfrey as we sat beneath the big sky of the prairie.

It was  early autumn now, with crops off the fields, we would ride for miles on the A.T.V. Godfrey clinging on behind, through rut and sinkhole we would climb, up to my special viewing rock. With patchwork of farmland in the valley below, he and I would talk.

I said I enjoy the Magpie and admire the clever crow, but feel my spirit bird to be the ferocious Furruginous Hawk. I have never felt alive in lugubrious places low. Like the hawk I’m fiercely  protective of what I  call my own, the high crags of the badlands and the sky’s swirling thermals are my home.

..I fancy the Mallard Drake when I ponder  creation, Godfrey lay back, chewing on a straw. The colors and markings on the Mallard Duck, could human imagination think up and draw?

I do not lay claim to home, or mountain high like you, I move with the seasons from stubble field to slough. I paddle like you soar, with the same serenity, in city park and wilderness you will find me.

He then gently took my arm in his, said my dear Ferocious Hawk, let us hike on foot further up your special rock. We will there feel the freeze and in sunlight drift in  thought, and we shall picnic on cream buns, and the tinned Tapioca I have brought.


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