Today, this morning, I hear the lonesome cry of a hawk in the autumn-draped trees behind our house; each morning, he cries, and I believe it’s for you. I first heard him the day we lost you, Sully. When we celebrated your life in that beautiful field in Tinicum, a hawk circled above us. When I left that field, I found a hawk’s feather on the ground, so I took it to the rock where I found you.
One month ago, on this morning, you left us. Each morning I cry for you. I miss you, Sully, my beautiful and sensitive son.
Glenn Burd's Blog ~ Word Doodles 