Mary Panttaja

I was in the orchard this afternoon checking out the fruit set. It looks good; especially after last year’s debacle. We had one (count it) Santa Rosa plum that fell off the tree before it ripened. This year there will be hundreds. There are dozens and dozens of tiny red fruits on the pear trees. The apple set and the oranges aren’t done yet—though because of the incredible bloom, it should be good.

I heard a shrill scream overhead. And then a second. I look up to see a large white-tailed kite, brilliant against the sky, sail right over my head. Followed by a second. They proceeded to chase and circle around our hill. They swirled and chased up into the sky. And then they seemed to clasp their feet and, in a spinning cartwheel, began to fall out of the sky with a fling and flare of white wings. Down almost to the tree tops they cascaded.

In the last minute, they separated and began their climb back into the sky.

Are they brave? Do they need courage to take such a plunge? Or are they simply surrendered to who and what they are? They are so completely themselves, so completely the embodiment of white-tailed kite-ness; completely free of any ideas of worry or fear. And as they perfectly reflect their kite-ness, it turns out that they really are safe, and that any idea of danger or safety we might have for them isn’t meaningful to their lives.

They were so free and so beautiful.