The hawk did not fall by accident.
In the Everglades—where land and water argue softly about who belongs—the sky released her.
Her wing was broken, but her gaze was not.
She did not cry out.
She waited.
When the woman came, the hawk did not strike.
She did not fear.
She chose.
Hands that had known pain met wings that had known wind.
Bone was steadied.
Time slowed.
Trust passed silently between them—older than language.
The hawk healed and returned to the sky,
but something else remained.
The woman was left with hawk-sight:
the knowing that not all falls are failures,
that sometimes the sky sends its messenger downward
so a soul will finally look up.
From that day on, the hawk did not circle above her—
it lived within her.
She watches now.
She waits.
She remembers.
Painting is how I listen. Writing is how I answer.