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Hawk Mountain, September Patricia Valdata One by one, broad-winged hawks enlarge from distant speck to soaring bird, gathering air as they circle over the ridge, one bird joined by another and another until dozens spiral together over the forested hill. The higher birds’ field marks fade in the low-slung clouds until one or more decide to head south. The kettles straighten and stream past rocks where birders look up, counting or admiring or both. The temptation so strong to wave, throw streamers, yell bon voyage! By the day’s end, three thousand will have passed over the mountain, over the Amish fields, following cold fronts and ridgelines. In two weeks they’ll be gone, funneling down the Mexican coast to Central America, where prey is plentiful and trees stay green all winter. The young lead the way, immature birds born with a map in their heads, eager to leave home, like teenagers with car keys, or the young boy jumping from rock to rock, ignoring the overhead passage, too busy throwing pebbles and snapping sticks to care about birds, too full of energy to sit still like his mother, who watches him more than hawks, as if she can give him traction with her eyes, deny what she already knows, that all things grow up and leave. |