I MAGINE THE SKY OPENED, clear and blue, when the hawk took to the air. Imagine her soaring over the valley, looping in great circles. Imagine that she flew to the mountains, skimming the granite domes and wheeling over the rolling surface of the canopy. That her eyes searched the trees and patches of ground that peeked through the gaps. That life surged around her.
“Blessed is the canopy,” she whispered into the sky. “Blessed is the bounty that it brings.” And she sent her blessings down like mist to settle on the conifers below.
And all was green.
Down in the dappled light of the forest, among the streams, among the rustle of fallen leaves and the wet and earthy scent of decaying needles, thrummed the life of the undergrowth. The brush mice, the wood rats, the pocket gophers. They skittered through the woodland floor, dashing into the shadows made by the crowns of the giants. And they looked up past the deep red trunks of the giants, the bark of sugar pines and ponderosa, up to the silhouette of the crowns above them.
And all was green.
In between stood the forest, sweeping through the valley to nestle against the granite of the mountain range. The canopy reached high and spread wide. It moved slowly from the fingers of wind. And all was green.
Until it wasn’t.
THE HAWK had been dreaming of green. She was perched at the top
