Sitting on the patio watching the hawks soar overhead. There are three of them. Three, then two, then none. They disappear behind the tangle of branches lining the borders of the Disney conservation park, only to pop back and pass obscured by my roofs opacity, riding the wind, dipping and diving to some unseen adventure.

Silent.

The cardinal adds symphony to their muted flight, a pinprick of red alight on the autumn branch of a sleeping oak. It’s basking in its own reverie unaware of the song it sings to the hawks hoedown.

Cah, cah, cah, enters the crow, who is searching for his friends. Where’s the party it seems to be saying. The lone red bird is silenced in its intrusion, like the poor introvert who is kicked out at the whim of its roomie, allowing for the cacophony to fill the space once filled by its melodious murmurings.

My cats are entranced by the cackle of the crows, where the cardinal song was as the breeze of the day. As the cool girls who demand all the attention, dim the lights that shine bright on their own. The loudest one gets the attention, and the crows stand out. Black. No fear in the crow mars their search.

I think about the nature I am surrounded by. The birds do what they do, affected by their companions, yet disaffected by the worlds beyond their sight. As the introspective relates more to the internal, the birds only know.

The hawk seeks the right winds to take their wings, not beating, not struggling, just opportunity, waiting for the air to take their stride. The cardinal sits amidst the gray wooden arms, boldly seen but through no effort, just the color of their body, noticed. A song to give the world to those that hear.

I hear.

The quiet beauty of the patio, a place of solitude, where I can forget that there are crows waiting for my attention in the form of work, errands, obligations. This moment is just for me. A gift from God. The birds of the air, so simple, so wonderful, show how we are in our natural habitat. One without concrete, or cash, or consternation. Without contention.

Birds fly.

I watch, silently, pondering.