Calling

The hawks are crying today, their calls stretching out from the sky over the trees, ominous reminders of what has come to be, and what will come this way. Lately they trace their conical spirals over my head not as if I am the prey, but that something beside me, following me, invisible to my eye but so close to my soul, is being hunted because it is the weak, lesser, dispensable facet of myself. I want to decipher their conversation, to know what it is they see that I do not. I want the keener vision from above, to know what is strong and will withstand, and what is weak and will disappear no matter what.