There he sits, my summer infatuation. The one my husband doesn't mind that he brings out my inner stalker.
"My" Cooper Hawk drops in at brunch. Relaxes on my patio bench with his come-hither stare.
I have never had a bird of prey so patiently pose.
Some day he'll do what summer loves do. He'll leave.
Until then, I am enamored that this sweetheart is fearless at my approach. I dream he'll let me stroke his back before he goes away with some other girl who is more his type. And size. And everything else which goes with compatibility.
Happy hour finds him in the tree.
When he tires of this place, I know. I will miss him. But unlike my first summer love, at least I have photos in remembrance of just how handsome he was.
When life consists of incidents of inconvenience tumbling with real tragedy, I yearn to climb under my desk and just stay there. Then just a glance at what glory I am surrounded by, and in an instance depression lifts and I am filled with gratitude to live in such glory.
Acquaintances think I made this garden. But really, this garden made me.