The Hawk Above

I sat in the little silver bleachers looking at the empty blue tennis courts.

For a summer day, I couldn’t ask for more.

The breeze is so cool on the back of my neck it sends a little shiver through me.  But the sun is bright enough I have to wear my sunglasses.

The playground is off somewhere behind me.  I can hear the creak of the chains of the swings.  And children’s noises.

I see a runner.  A girl.  With a red t-shirt and black leggings.

I see car after car coming in.  People meeting up to walk together.  To sit around the pond.

I marvel at the differences between people wearing the bare minimum, and others wearing hooded sweatshirts and long pants, with the sleeves of their hoodies pulled over their hands.

I ate my salad.

Content.

Happy.  That in the middle of what the world might see as an average day, I find enjoyment in the ordinary.  I feel the softness of the cool air and the warmth of the sun.  I see people and have no fear of them.  The clouds are so heavy and white, tinted by grey depth.

Then, I see a hawk flying above me.  And I am briefly jealous of his view and his flight.

Then, I refocus on my own view.

That hawk, doesn’t have the pleasure of watching himself soar.

Or the treasure of my moment.