When the hawk appears on the plump, squat shrub, most often I soon hear William open

 

the front door to our house.  He always finds no one there.  “It was you, wasn’t it,” he’ll say to

 

me.

 

***

 

On Thursday, February 24^th 2022, Russia invaded Ukraine.  That’s worth repeating: Russia 

 

invaded Ukraine.  When Trump speaks of the war with Ukraine, he muddies the waters as to

 

how the war started.  But it’s simple: Russia invaded Ukraine, a sovereign nation.

 

The next day, William and I arrived in North Adams in the most northwest corner of my state

 

of Massachusetts.  That weekend, we were staying at a boutique hotel called the Porches.  With

 

its Victorian architecture and modern amenities, the hotel is actually a row of nineteenth century

 

houses across from MASS MoCA.  In our room, that night, with the television on, I listened as

 

President Zelensky addressed the Ukrainian people at the end of this first day of Russia’s attack.

 

I looked out one of the windows and watched the steam rising from the year-round heated

 

outdoor pool and hot tub and felt such despair and sadness for the Ukrainian people.

 

Unprovoked, unexpected, living their lives, common lives, just like ours, when everything

 

changed.

 

***

 

Steam rising.  William takes care of my babies.  That’s what I call those most common of

 

birds associated with us humans.  My babies are those fat, little sparrows that flourish in

 

our  small backyard.  The steam rises from our heated bird bath and I watch as they splash and play

 

in the water that William, even in the frigidity of winter, keeps clean and fresh.

 

I watch them from the east-facing window in my office.  I am a writer who sometimes needs

 

to just sit and think or not think.  “Are you working?” William will ask when he comes into my

 

room and sees me just staring out the window.  He has learned that I could be working, just

 

sitting there.

 

I watch my babies dart from feeder to feeder, which William always keeps filled, and then,

 

they come to rest on the plump, squat shrub that sits below my window.  I think it’s a boxwood.

 

William, all spring into summer into autumn, with hedge clippers, keeps its round surface flat

 

and even.  I watch these birds and think about what they symbolize for me:  joy and simplicity.

 

To me, they represent resilience, adaptability, community, freedom, but, mostly, hope.  With

 

them in it, this world can’t be all that bad.

 

***

 

Almost every day, for awhile, they all disappear.  Then I know that the hawk, that top

 

predator, my nemesis has just dived at a breakneck speed into their backyard sanctuary.  It took

 

me some time to figure out where they go, my sparrows, so quickly.  Then, one day, from my

 

office chair, I could see them all hiding inside the hedge below my window.  I could see all those

 

little bodies protected by the tight weave of the thicket above them.  The hawk looking down,

 

could not see them.

 

It took awhile for the hawk to find them.  I’d watch him land on the shrub.  I’d rush to the

 

window and pound my hand on it.  Off he would soar from behind my house and perch

 

on the gable of the tallest house in my field  of vision.  I pound on the window; William

 

checks for anonexistent visitor at the front door.

 

Then that horrible day came when the hawk realized where they were.  I watched as he

 

plopped down on the ground and then poked his entire body into the hedge.  My babies scattered

 

as I pounded away on the window as hard as I could until William, not fooled this time, came

 

into my office to ask what was going on.

 

***

 

A hawk.  A ruthless person.  A war advocate.  Someone who preys on others, like a con artist.

 

A world where language could be precise.  Should be precise.  Russia invaded Ukraine.