As the Hawk Glides in

As the hawk glides in, the old, open grown oak and the morning fog are singing, lightly, to each other, of stillness and cool moisture, the oak radiating a slow melody, the fog testing harmonies here and there. As the hawk flares its wings and lands on a high branch, they fall nearly mute. The oak preoccupies itself with dripping leaves, the fog with a breathy sighing. Then the bird takes up the oboe of magnificent silence. The oak provides a soft bass, the fog, over its shoulder, an invisible, fading flute.