Sometimes, after a day of correcting, of disciplining and instructing, of guiding and showing, this hawk’s wings are laden with mud from too
many days of rain, from too much time on the ground.
I become still. I listen
to Sarah’s songs, to Susan’s melodies, to violins and mountain ballads, to Native flutes, wind in the grass, birds in the trees, to water and penny whistles.
The sludge looses its power, slips from my wings and I feel the breeze, the lift. Always, it is the music
that gives me wings.