You sit on the front steps in love with the little birds, the finches & sparrows fidgeting from leafy cover, not that they need you cheering them on to eat the seed at the feeders hung just for them sunflower, millet, a white sock of thistle; but when the hawk lowers its broad red shoulders and sits, alone, on the limb of the cherry tree, after the little birds, seeing it coming, have scattered like ifs and whens you pull for the hawk, admiring its heft, the turn of its head, not to mention the unblenched eyes, its black-banded tail.