February Eighteenth Two Thousand Three

Josh, Jordy and I are out for our morning walk. The snow, which had begun to fall the day before, had continued throughout the night to deliver an amazing 27+ inches total. We stopped to talk with a neighbor who was walking her dog.
Despite the temperature and the quiet grandeur in the purity of the massive snow cover, we paused for light conversation with no particular focus. My attention was drawn away from her eyes and I found myself in the process of one great inhale. There, above us swooping, curving, souring, low just below the treetops a magnificent grey hawk. Higher, and off in the distance, over the high-rise apartment building and in between the trees, was yet another hawk. She and I were in awe of this sight, not just the singularity of the moment accented by presence of the hawks, but the sterility of the moment. To consider that here we are, standing in the center of a main street, in the core of the Boston Metro area, and we were blessed with the sights of this early morning winter’s day and the exquisite gift of the presence of the hawks, this entire encounter alters the contemporary and feeds the concept of a wilderness lost.
That was a truly spiritual moment.