Crepuscular Activity
Walking With a Hawk on a Lantern-Lit Forest Path
Sunrise is a magical time on the farm, especially in winter. Some mornings I walk outside for chores and the sky makes me stop mid-stride. The horizon is ablaze with ribbons of pink, orange, and maroon. When there’s snow on the ground it looks like spilled watercolors.
Sunsets are good, too. Some are pink and purple, backlit by golden clouds. They feel like the ending scene from a movie I loved in my childhood but can’t place. It still feels comforting. My favorite nostalgia is instinctual.
Dawn and dusk are the in-between times. They feel hopeful because they’re opportunities. You’re either starting a new day or getting ready for an evening out. And even if you never notice the sky, you can feel the way the day slides between meaning. You don’t clock the surrender but it’s there.
We need to know resetting isn’t just possible; it’s inevitable.
Sunlight is powerful. I fell in love once during golden hour, witnessing the fleeting warmth gild every inch of her while she effortlessly raked back her hair. And I’ve woken up shaking from nightmares, reassured by the faintest slivers of dawn. Relief is instinctual, too.
Dusk is also when I have this twenty-minute window to walk the forest path at its most magical. During these last gasps of sunset the farm is cast in deep blue. It’s dim enough to trigger the lanterns on the path, but still light enough to make out every branch and root. I watch the lanterns light up, one by one. This is the last daylight I’ll witness till morning. The sun officially set. This blue haze is passing grief for what remains.
I am not alone. On my gloved hand are the talons of a young hawk. He isn’t gripping, he’s balancing. He no longer holds onto me in fear, which is how I knew he was ready for this experience. For days we have been spending all our time together, two species slowly earning each other’s trust. I want to give him the choice to walk calmly with me in this wild place. It’s a lot to ask, but if any time of day could give us this milestone, it’s now.
He is hooded and calm. I watch his head turn towards the sound of the stream, then dart towards the horse pasture at the mare’s snort. Wind gently lifts his breast feathers while he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He is brand new to me, but I have been doing this for a decade. The white and brown pattern across his shoulders feels familiar even though I know every hawk’s plumage is different. Like fingerprints.
When I take off the hood I hold my breath. My anxiety is secret. He acts predictably, starting out nervous and then promptly settling down when he realizes I’m there. His talons start to squeeze my hand a little. He watches me instead of the woods. This is a good sign. I focus on my breathing as if I’m in a yoga class.
I walk slow. My left arm as steady as if I’m balancing a glass of water. He looks around at the forest as he knows it in this light. His eyes widen. No sensible red-tail would be this close to the ground at this time of day. His surviving peers and elders are all tucked in for the night, bodies pressed tight against tall trees, sheltered and safe. But he has to trust a woman on a dark path. I pull him close, my arm against my chest. I’ll be his tree.
His talons relax.
He’s not the flight risk. I am.
The world changes from blue to black. It’s a full moon tonight. I can see her rising slow and distant. She isn’t high enough to cast shadows yet, so the only light we see are lanterns on low branches. They are spaced out every thirty steps or so. The same distance Walt Disney demanded trash cans be placed in his parks. Wisdom is handed out everywhere if you’re paying attention.
The collies slink past us, up and down trail. He can’t help but grip tighter when they’re close. He learned that the black and white coyotes are no threat to him as long as I’m there. For days he watched me tell them to lie down if they got too close. Watched this primate direct bobcats and foxes of all colors and sizes around her den. All she’s done is protect and feed me, he starts to realize. I can feel it in the silence.
My forest is dark now. A hawk lives by daylight, diurnal to the core. That’s why hoods calm them. They forfeit all control because darkness means stillness. It means sleep. It means there’s nothing left to do but wait for returning light. And since I took off the hood right before nightfall, he experienced just enough light for decision. He realized he could take off for a high pine and “save” himself or he could choose to trust me and stay.
His talons soften and he keeps calm against my heartbeat. I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for 41 years.
Let me tell this much about about trusting talons in the dark. The trust I am seeking isn’t mine. I am never anticipating pain. I am praying for release.
And he gave it to me.
Stunning imagery, Jenna. You really have a magical way of broadcasting these universal truths that the rest of us can't communicate.
Well this was just gorgeous. Thank youuuu!