This morning I’m watching a scene that is as old as time: the dance of predator and prey. It’s the hawk, perhaps the same one who attacked the parakeets a few weeks ago, and he’s hungry for breakfast. From my office window I have a bird’s eye (make that a raptor’s eye) view of the backyard and can watch him just as he is watching others.

The hawk perches on the low-lying limbs of the witch hazel tree and scans the yard looking for signs of movement. Several times I’ve seen him swoop down to earth, responding to the slightest rustle. So far he’s been unsuccessful, but it’s only a matter of time before some small critter is his forever.

As for the critters, they dart back and forth. Squirrels burrow through leaves looking for acorns. Woodpeckers and sparrows flit from branch to suet block seeking their own sustenance.

Here I am with my own stomach growling — but I don’t want to leave this elemental enactment. There is some ancient wisdom in it, some explanation for why things are the way they are — and I want to take it in a little longer.

(Rather than trot out my one blurry hawk photo again, here’s a beautiful but creepy shot of a 2016 Renwick exhibit.)