I believe there are always signs if we look for them. Sometimes, the signs will even crash in on us while we sip our morning coffee under the trees, on our stoop, or on the balcony. Just such an occurrence happened to me on the day of the last new moon.
The following is the poem I wrote that day, about 11 minutes after it happened.
The Falcon flew in and landed on the lowest branch of my spirit tree. In her talons she grasped a dying Dove.
A moment later there was a sharp cry and a flurry of feathers, and the Hawk flew off, eyeballing me darkly, with the motionless Dove in his talons.
The Falcon picked herself off the ground and flew to the lowest telephone line that stretched itself between my house and my neighbor's mansion. She stayed there for many breaths.
In my own confusion and pain, I blew her a kiss. It seemed like the best thing to do at the time.
She eyed me with eyes of hunger, of reckoning, of warning, acknowledging that I was a witness to her loss. She stayed on the wire until she could fly again, then flew low back East.
I heard cries of warning after the Hawk left. Too little, too late. A Crow, small Song Birds, a Jay. Even the vultures rang out. They too bore witness to this weird wrecking. Reckoning.
I believe the Dove was half of the couple of mourning doves that coo up in my lilac tree. I've heard them singing soft love songs to one another many mornings.
Her mate has circled our roof everyday since, looking for her. He still coos, but his voice trembles more now, a timber of grief apparent even to me, who does not speak Bird Song. How long will he keep returning to look for her? It's already been 2 weeks since the murder.
Who slew the dove? Who was her killer? The Falcon, probably. They are known for dive-bombing their prey mid-flight. Does it matter?
For she was dead, dead, dead the whole time, as the drama between predators and onlookers unfolded. She was always still dead.
I interpret this interaction between my other-than-human neighbors as an omen. A portent of what might come, a portrait of what was already here, and the result of a 1,000,000 tangled threads of fate.
What exactly is an OMEN?
The definition and etymology of the word:
o·men /ˈōm(ə)n/
noun: omen; plural noun: omens
an event regarded as a portent of good or evil.
"the ghost's appearance was an ill omen"
prophetic significance.
"the raven seemed a bird of evil omen".
etymology: "to give indication of the future," 1775, from omen (n.). Related: Omened. The Latin verb ominari meant "to know or tell from omens, to predict."
To me, an omen is something to pay attention to, not necessarily for good or evil, but for information.
Sometimes that information helps me predict the future bends in the path. Sometimes, it will be an open doorway to a personal revelation. Sometimes, it will reveal the archetypal symbols of a collective conflict. This time, it felt like all three.
This natural occurrence between competing predators and prey came to me when I was talking with my mother on the phone. She’s been sick and dealing with a lot lately. I was listening to her story when the Falcon flew in. The whole tragic drama unfurled while I listened to her worries, and by the time the Falcon flew off, we had hung up, and I hadn’t told her anything of what I had seen. I didn’t want to burden her. I breathed heavily as I hung up the phone, as if I too had been knocked from a branch. As I stayed still there under the tree for a few breaths, I was hit with the force of my own personal interpretation of this omen:
To witness a murder, to witness a defeat, is to be aware that a part of you is also eaten and defeated whilst another part eats in triumph. The paradox of this interaction is that no one wins, not even the Hawk, for he is scorned by the whole community, even the Crows and Vultures, carrion birds that they are.
The death of innocents at the hands of any predator is always a tragedy. As humans, we have the evolutionary brain density and connective capability to eliminate the need to kill. We can feed ourselves without death. And yet, there are those of us who still choose to let the predator within hunt. I’m not talking about those who walk the time-honored path of hunting for their families and selves to eat. This is not vegan propaganda (love you, vegan friends). I’m speaking of those of us that still choose to steal for pleasure, to maim, to break with our empathy and choose to keep reliving legacies of violence. Those of us who keep murdering Doves.
The last many, many months of genocide in multiple parts of the world is key to the contextual overstory of this omen occurrence, and how it may be used to predict the future. I invite you to consider who might be the Hawk, and who might be the Falcon. Who might be the Dove, the Dove’s mate, the chorus of onlookers? I invite you to make meaning of this with me, in our personal and collective lives.
We must weave a future where Doves are not the spoils of war.
Below are some fundraising links to organizations I trust with my money to redistribute food, water, and hygiene aid in some of the areas where it is needed most. Thank you for your generosity. Thank you for your witness.
Godspeed, good-luck, and don’t get caught out there.