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Veronique de Turenne

The four seasons


Like the rest of us AngeleƱos with even a shred of awareness, the hawk perched in the sycamore knows we have seasons. Winter now, with bare trees and a late, thin sunrise.

So he waits, feathers fluffed, for the chill to dispel, for the sun to climb, for the thermals to warm and lift him, keening as he hunts high above the hills.

Next entry: Signs of Saturday: Cat-astrophe

More by Veronique de Turenne:
Good night, 2016
Congratulations Lidia and Dan!
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