I saw a hawk at the landfill this morning.  I noticed it out of the corner of my eye.  It was gliding above the grass and scrub brush that surround the mountain of waste.  It was almost motionless in flight, shifting only to adjust its course.

Nothing looks majestic when viewed over a trash pile.  The bird dipped its wing and slipped out of sight.  It’s hard to be awestruck when you’re standing ankle deep in garbage.  I marched back to the truck and kicked the mud off my boots.

. . . But the image of the bird was tattoo’d on my retinas in TechniColor.  It looked so solemn on its silent patrol.  I saw it in a flash – the feathers of its wingtips spread, each one distinct from the next – and was immediately filled with longing.

I longed for a life without anxiety or anger.  I longed for the certainty of that existence; hunt, kill, survive.  Certainty is freedom.  Imagine a life unbound by social constraints or deadlines, uncomplicated by the wants of others.

Imagine being free to soar.

I never have dreams about flying.  I don’t know what that dream would feel like.  Riding a motorcycle is probably a suitable surrogate.

I’ve dreamt of falling – usually in total darkness – as a sensation without sight.  It’s always the same.  The world quickly spirals out and suddenly I know I’m plummeting to Hell to face Eternal Damnation.

Fifteen years of hard-core Christian indoc will do awful things to a man, like fill his soul with guilt and self-loathing.

Unvarnished by the fantasies of pricks and poets, predators live to survive.

As the truck bounced down the winding dirt road off the hill I caught sight of a flock of birds scavenging trash.  Their wings were busy, their dark shapes shifting and fluttering as a single, disorganized mass.

Everything eats and shits.  That’s all we do.  Eat and shit.

Some make their own way.

Others fight over scraps.