A Knock upon My Window

A Knock upon My Window 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

And so a knock came upon my window. But perhaps a bit of context first. I was at my computer minding my own business.

Next door I could hear some sort of worker, set about his back yard work. They had working for days. Maybe they were building a new patio, or fixing the old one. The fence was tall and I wasn’t that nosy, but I could hear their noise all the same. Things started a little early in the morning for my taste, but we all have a difference of opinion on when the day begins and there was no home owners association to complain to. And being a non-nosy neighbor, I was also a non-confrontational one. I figured it would only be a few more days anyway.

It was trash day and I had heard the truck making its way one direction down the street, picking up barrels as it went. It had one of those mechanical arm things that occasionally crushed a barrel if not lined up properly. I had lost my green recycling barrel once when perhaps the machine ate it. Or maybe a neighbor stole it. Either way, I was accustomed to hearing noises coming from up and down the street.

I was at my desk, drinking my morning coffee, minding my own businesses when I heard a THUMP!

And so my mind raced. Had someone broken in? Had my neighbor’s workers crashed something into the fence between our properties? Or had the trash truck dropped and broke someone else’s trash barrel? Preferably not my own.

I grabbed a knife, because yes, I kept a knife in my desk drawer. If someone had broken in, I was prepared to make a fool of myself as I poorly attempted to defend my home.

I found no hostile invader.

I peeked out several windows, trying to get an eye on my fence. Trying to see down the street at empty trash barrels.

Nothing seemed in disarray.

I relaxed. I put the knife down. Still, though, I had heard something. Perhaps out back...

The moment I stepped out the sliding door, I saw it. Down on the concrete patio, a mere 10 feet away, laying right outside my window – a dead hawk. Motionless. Still. Legs in the air. If I hadn’t known that my patio was normally empty, I might have thought it a statue or some sort. Incredible. Like it had always been there.

I went inside. This would be a headache. I had dealt with dead mice in the garage. I had handled a dead bird in the gutter. But this hawk was big. I didn’t think I could just throw it in the trash. Had my trash been taken yet? Maybe I could get in out in my trash barrel before it began to stink or rot. Still though, I probably needed gloves and maybe a box or at least a trash bag.

When I got back outside, the hawk had turned its head and was looking at me. Apparently not dead at all. But maybe it was paralyzed.

Animal services assured me that this sort of thing happened all the time. All the time they said?! What nonsense. What insanity. What was a hawk doing diving bombing my patio as if there were food to be had? Maybe there had been a rodent. Or some other bird to do battle with. Whatever. My window was no prey. Surely the hawk could tell that.

The internet told me to collect it and make it feel safe. Perhaps let it rest in a cardboard box. Animal services told me to leave it alone in case it got defensive and attacked me. Score one for animal services. I left it alone.

Check back, they told me. It was probably stunned and momentarily unconscious and in a half hour or hour it would spread its wings and fly away. Maybe it would dive bomb my house again. Or maybe it would be smarter than risk another neck snap.

Later I peeked out the window and it was standing. I thought to grab my camera. I wished I had remembered sooner and got a shot of it on the ground. Of course, when I thought it was dead, I never would have wanted a photo of a dead bird. But now, now it was of interest.

When I returned it was too late. The hawk was gone. I had missed my chance.  A mark remained on the window where I could make out where its head hit, a few random feathers still stuck to the glass. What good was that, though? Nothing interesting for others to see when I told the story.

Someone told me later that hawks are messengers and it was trying to deliver an important sign. What sign? Was it a vision? Was this my spirit animal? I was told that a trouble in my life had not yet passed, and the crash symbolized some coming fate. What would that be? I didn’t realize I was having troubles or that they could get worse. I thought I just had a strange moment and a story to tell. I didn’t realize some impending fate was due.

The hawk got off easy. The hawk had woken and was gone. My anxiety and paranoia remains.