Cold Feet

One of the things I love most about my morning commute is turning from Gypsy onto 711 and seeing a hawk sitting on the lightpole just before the ramp merges with the highway. On rare occasions, two hawks will be sharing the lightpole.

I see him three or four days a week, every week, spring through fall. (I don't know that it's a him. I don't even know what variety of hawk he is. I'm just using the male gender for brevity.) Very occasionally in the winter, he'll be sitting there, waiting for me. I got to thinking about where he goes when the metal lightpole is too cold for his little feet. (Okay: Claws. Talons. Whatever.) Does he migrate? I don't think so—I still see him and his compatriots sitting in trees, searching the white fields for their breakfast.

Does he abandon the lightpole merely because of the cold? (Well, not merely. I'd abandon it, too, if I had my bare feet/claws/talons sitting on icy metal. I've been tempted to abandon NE Ohio lately after days and days of unending snow.)

These are all questions for which I have no answers. But everyone I know is counting the number of days until spring. For me, spring will bring a melting of all this snow, the popping through the ground of daffodils, and a return of my guardian hawk.

Please don't read into the first paragraph that I like my commute. I hate my commute. Hate. With a passion. But, in a neverending attempt to be positive, that forced hour-or-more in the car every morning and evening does let me listen to podcasts or audiobooks, and lets me commune with the hawks.

And lest you thought, from the title of this post, that I was going to tell you I'm getting cold feet about my new relationship, you're out o' luck. Way out o' luck. My feet are very warm.