There had once been cattle in the cattle-pen, but now there are only bones. Skulls and ribs reach toward the sky between the crinkly, golden grasses of Wyoming winter. A shadow passes over the boneyard, and I look up to see a white hawk soaring lazily above. My arms are filled with bones that I have gathered-perhaps my strange behavior has captured its attention? It flies closer and closer until I can see the fine fur across its feet that give it its name Buteo lagopus, or “hare hawk.”
© Christina Baal 2015
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