The Cooper’s hawk stalking my back yard struck at early light, leaving silky gray and white feathers, downy cling to the deck railing. How smart to pounce on prey, while I dreamed dreams I don’t remember and couldn’t protect the slow-blinking dove whose monogamy stirs me now. Is that coo your mate calling for you? Don’t get me wrong. Hawks are fine, elsewhere, in the neighbor’s maple seven doors down or a mile away, diminishing destructive rodents or anywhere else than in my willow watching, hawk-eyed, the wrens and warblers. And, who is that man who (delightedly) tells the story of a hawk chasing a wren who hid behind his leg which he moved so the hawk could dine? That breaking of trust, but why? A moment of god-like omnipotence? But---why? And those men who hunt diving ducks they won’t eat, leaving behind once sweet-faced waders, silky feathered bodies, carcasses, call it sport so unsporting. How did ceasing a beating heart become a leisure activity? I think we could learn much from hawks and doves and ducks, someday.