On the way home from riding with Daughter to school, this morning, I received a call from Beloved Wife using an unusually squeamish voice. A hawk was dead in our garden! I’ve had to deal with eternity-shocked (extravagantly plump) pigeons, in our garden, before… but a hawk?
I call it “our” garden but it’s Wife’s grand project; she found a place, with a private garden, for us to move into (right around the corner from the medical practise of my intense Persian ex… into whom we bump all the time… one of those Novel coincidences) and Wife cultivated the large-ish space to a high level of cozy and colorful Nature so eye-grabbing that fat pigeons and hawks come here to breathe their last. Beloved Wife raises the flowers and I bury the birds.
Our… no, Wife’s… Garden in the foggy Fall; this is the corner Hawk chose to plummet to (to the right of this, Wife grows grapes, raspberries and raspberry-sized tomatoes and potatoes):
Only fellow Berliners appreciate the good luck of having a large-ish private garden; Americans are used to big houses and large yards with high fences around them. Only at a tastefully-constrained scale do Life’s subtlest pleasures really pop, I think, and only with the occasional reminder of the End of the World… this time, the note came courtesy of a hawk… does Life remind us to really pop, too.