The `io have been playing in the blustery winds, flapping heavily
up, into the gusts. Facing into the wind, they flap slowly, holding
position like surfers. When a strong gust comes by, they wheel and
dive into it, riding it at speeds beyond that of mortal bird. You
can hear the jubilation in their cries as they peel off at the end
of the ride. It begins in the updraft over Pu`u Hala`i and, in a
heartwrenching juxtaposition, ends over the county jail where they
circle the perimeter, spiraling upward. I suspect there are thermals
rising from the asphalt which surrounds the facility.
Sometimes the current takes them to the other side of the African
tulip tree, so I cannot see the birds themselves. Instead, their
shadows rush through the branches, raking across the leaves, spirits
of birds hurtling through matter, flying on the winds of time
itself.
The raucous jeering of the nestlings brings both the hawks and
myself back to the present.
The male makes a final banking turn, swoops down in a soft
curve and disappears between the arms of the home tree. The female
spirals up and resumes her quest for doves. I finally remember to
exhale. My coffee is now cold. I finish scattering the chicken feed
I have been holding in my right hand.