Lois and I walk in the parking lot toward the Y as the cold front blows in. We hear two "kee-eeeee-arrs," then see two hawks at fifty feet doing an aerial dance. We pause, enjoy their show, then continue to the Y—but on the way I stop to talk to a guy sporting a kaki shirt with an AK-47 on the front, his eyes focus on the hawks. "What are they doing?" I ask.
"Red-tailed hawks are considered sacred by my people. They are my spirit guides."
"Spirit Guides?"
"For my people spirit guides are like angels and connect me to the Great Spirit. They have already shown me two signs."
"That's cool."
"I am a Native American, Marine, bodyguard and caretaker"—pointing toward a white amblicab with the driver door left open.
"What tribe?
"Choctaw, Cherokee and Norseman It's a bit crazy."
"What tribe was that last one? Norsewhat?"
"From Scandinavia, got Norwegian blood in me."
"Then we are brothers—my grandmother was 100% Norwegian."
"I was raised on the reservation near the northern Georgia border. There I was taught the way of the Red-tailed hawk. I learned how to coax 'em down to the ground right in front of me—I have it on tape."
We watch the hawks in the high winds, backlit by low steel gray clouds, spaced several feet apart and frozen in space. Their large wings point up in a high V dumping large amounts of the uplifting air. Their legs and talons hang straight down braking them like spoilers on a fighter jet. They remain stationary for a while, then leave to soar in arcs of a few hundred yards—one to the right and one to the left—let out spine-tingling "kee-eeeee-arrs" and return to the same spot without the flap of a wing.
"That has to be a sign," I say.
"When the female flies in the large circle, she looks agitated—she looks very angry."
"What does that mean?"
With furled brow, squinting eyes, jutting jaw and pursed lips, he imperceptibly shakes his head, and grunts a low ominous "mmmmmmmm;" following with: "Not good; not good at all.
"I'm glad my client saw 'em from the van. I'm his caretaker, er ah ah assistant caretaker, Native American, Marine and bodyguard."
"Hey, I hear my client in there; gotta go."
"I'm Sundance. Friends call me Sunny."
"Glad to meet ya, Sundance."
"Red-tailed hawks are considered sacred by my people. They are my spirit guides."
"Spirit Guides?"
"For my people spirit guides are like angels and connect me to the Great Spirit. They have already shown me two signs."
"That's cool."
"I am a Native American, Marine, bodyguard and caretaker"—pointing toward a white amblicab with the driver door left open.
"What tribe?
"Choctaw, Cherokee and Norseman It's a bit crazy."
"What tribe was that last one? Norsewhat?"
"From Scandinavia, got Norwegian blood in me."
"Then we are brothers—my grandmother was 100% Norwegian."
"I was raised on the reservation near the northern Georgia border. There I was taught the way of the Red-tailed hawk. I learned how to coax 'em down to the ground right in front of me—I have it on tape."
We watch the hawks in the high winds, backlit by low steel gray clouds, spaced several feet apart and frozen in space. Their large wings point up in a high V dumping large amounts of the uplifting air. Their legs and talons hang straight down braking them like spoilers on a fighter jet. They remain stationary for a while, then leave to soar in arcs of a few hundred yards—one to the right and one to the left—let out spine-tingling "kee-eeeee-arrs" and return to the same spot without the flap of a wing.
"That has to be a sign," I say.
"When the female flies in the large circle, she looks agitated—she looks very angry."
"What does that mean?"
With furled brow, squinting eyes, jutting jaw and pursed lips, he imperceptibly shakes his head, and grunts a low ominous "mmmmmmmm;" following with: "Not good; not good at all.
"I'm glad my client saw 'em from the van. I'm his caretaker, er ah ah assistant caretaker, Native American, Marine and bodyguard."
"Hey, I hear my client in there; gotta go."
"I'm Sundance. Friends call me Sunny."
"Glad to meet ya, Sundance."
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