Pale Male over Fifth Ave & 73rd Street about to dive into his nest
The Happy Home.
Pale Male bringing home Lola's lunch
All images above taken last Wednesday & Thursday. No new stills acquired on Friday because of the rain.
They told me Pale Male was not seen for over five hours today. The rain lightened but never held up throughout the listless day. I curbed my disappointment when I saw the sparrows and starlings taking baths in small puddles around the pond—the little guys were delighted with the rain so then I could not be glum.
I set out to find him with only my binoculars—no cameras. I walked by the MET and began to get anxious—five hours unseen is an insufferably long time.
I found him remarkably quick which surprised me. I stood with my back against a short metal fencepost and watched him. He faced away from me perched on top of a white pipe on the roof of the massive museum.
A wetter more disheveled Pale Male I have hardly ever seen but the image he produced against the grey unyielding sky was sunshine for the soul.
The sting of the raindrops on my face as I looked up to behold the solitary bird awakened an awareness in me that some day those very raindrops will no longer sting my face but they shall continue to fall regardless.
In a long time from now all the troubles of the day will forever be forgotten and the raindrops today may be snowflakes in that time or perhaps tears in another. Presently I attempted to sensitize my wakefulness to soak in as much as I could fathom of all that was around me—a fruitless undertaking for soon my mind was drifting again.
Now he flew from the pipe to a tree unseen. No sooner than I found him did he fly to a backstop in The Great Lawn. A park worker awed by the sight of the magnificent bird behind the fence stopped his vehicle to stare at my friend. I met with this man and we talked about our good fortune to have him so close to us. Very soon the mighty hawk flew toward me passing almost into the heat of my breath then out of my sight but never missing my heart.
The poor fellow was hunting with, as it appears, no bounty for all those hours.
After a while I left him to the rain, the sky and the cool earth and I scribed a wandering path home for myself with no particular direction nor urgency.
As I imagined his next move I felt the pressure of time—a hungry mate braving the unpleasant weather in her nest—the failing light—soon his day will be over. But then I felt like I saw the irrelevance of time in some universal picture and a thought was born in me that his every move, bountiful or not, early or late, were all in good measure.