A Brookside Moment
 
"It's a childless hawk eating a steak," he whispered. I usually do not 
ask questions of intensely focused birders looking at what I cannot 
see. I am not sure of protocol when addressing people who seem to be in 
possession of a secret "Birdinci Code" that speaks of orbital rings, 
scapulars, trailing edges, leading edges, songs, calls, behaviors, and 
habitats.
 
It was a spectacular October day. Red, yellow, orange, and gold leaves 
still attached to tree branches enveloped me. I was buoyant, all 
inhibitions diminished by autumn splendor when I encountered the man 
with Einstein hair on both head and face, binoculars pointed to the 
tree tops. "What do you see?" I asked.
 
"It's a childless hawk eating a steak," he whispered, not moving an 
eyelash. "Oh," I said and laughed to myself. I must have spoken too 
loudly, moved too fast; surely. he made it up. Continuing down the path 
it came to me. From under his fly away beard he had whispered, "It's a 
red shouldered hawk eating a snake."