omen

The sunrise cuts a sharp red through the cold air. I look up from my desk. Outside my window a massive bird of prey is perched. A red-tailed hawk, hunched over a freshly killed pigeon. The head of the pigeon is gone and strips of red flesh are being torn out of its body by the powerful beak. I walk to the window. When it is done eating the hawk hops onto the railing and surveys upper manhattan from the sixth floor. Sensing my presence behind the window, it turns around and we gaze at one another for a time. The stillness stirs. It says something in a language I do not understand. After another glance around, it is gone. All that is left: the half-devoured carcass of a pigeon and the epic absence of a predator.