Sky the color of ash with clouds from horizon to horizon, each indistinguishable from the next as they stream in from the south.  All this gray sucks the color out of everything, washing the world in hues of sameness.

The unbroken wind caresses me, forcefully at times as its strength grows with daylight and the approaching storm.

A flash of red catches my eye.

He flits effortlessly along the top of the fence, a male cardinal, and his color seems bright, misplaced in this dingy world, and he stands out against the backdrop of evergreens swaying back and forth to music only they hear.

From behind, I see the cardinal’s mate wing her way to a spot just in front of him.  It seems like a game of leapfrog as they continue this movement, edging along the wooden fence in short bursts, each moving ahead of the other, then waiting.

When last they reach their tree, she dashes in first, disappears into its lush embrace.  He stands guard, looking, watching, calling to her occasionally as she serenades him from her hiding place.

Another color, one matching the sky, appears not far from him, a quick landing from behind me.  It is a mockingbird, one undoubtedly eager to pester these crested finches as so often happens when these species meet.

But there will be no pestering today.

The male cardinal turns and vanishes amongst the dense branches and pine needles, his bright red gone in an instant of shadow.

The mockingbird is left alone, standing atop the fence glancing to and fro, its tail randomly jerking toward the sky.  The poor creature seems confused, as though uncertain as to what comes next when the bully can’t find someone to pick on.

Then the squirrels dash up trees and take refuge where limbs are densest.

The mockingbird flees, taking flight and leaving only the memory of its presence, an afterglow, a silhouette of what was.

Something comes, something hunting that frightens everything.  Even the European starlings abandon their perches, take to the sky in erratic movements that sweep and sway through the air toward better cover.

I watch, wait.

Then it silently glides over me, over the trees, its wings swept back in preparation for attack.  I witness the birth of its stoop.

A peregrine falcon.  Even without seeing its details, such a predator is recognizable like one’s own face in a mirror.

As quickly as it appeared, it descends through the treetops, gone in an instant toward the creek, toward a hopeful breakfast.

I wish it luck.