A Broken Clock in Pieces on the Table

From out of the sky, fell a mighty hawk. No nose dive, hunting for prey; but spinning and flapping, out of control, fighting against wind and air to stop its fall. It seemed the outcome was inevitable. Hopeless. 

From the wheat field below, a woman watched, her heart in her throat. She’d needed to breathe, left the news behind, headed into the field, ran her hands over the tops of golden waves of grain. The sun had been warm on her face, when she heard the shot. Looked up. Watched in horror as the proud bird began its death dive. 

Helpless. Sick to her stomach. Her hands covered her mouth, tears filled her eyes. She needed peace. She needed one day without cruelty and broken ideals. She needed one day without broken families, babies in cages, children weeping for their parents, stolen away as they went to work. She needed…to do something.

Her feet were running before she realized she was moving toward the spot where the hawk would land. She needed to do something. The rude intrusion to her quest for peace could not end in death, could not end without her doing something to break the cycle, to help change the outcome. The world seemed a mess, a broken clock in pieces on the table, too destroyed to ever be right again. 

Yet…she ran.

Tearing her flannel shirt from around her waist, she ran. Trampled grasses marked her path, a trail of protest; and she dove, her eyes never leaving the hawk, arms outstretched, reaching to break its fall, catching it at the last moment. 

Gasping for air, her body supine upon crumpled stalks, the woman willed her heart to calm. She was afraid to look, to see if her efforts mattered, when she felt a brush of feathers against her hand where it clenched the flannel. 

Lifting her forehead from the ground, her eyes locked with the marbled unblinking gaze of the hawk. She couldn’t know yet if it would live, but she knew in that moment, that her efforts had not been wasted, that no matter the end, the fight was what mattered. Releasing her grip on the shirt, the woman braced herself, filled her tired lungs with air, steeled her broken heart, and rose to do what needed to be done.

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