I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

The summer, walking the hilly road up to my home in Vermont. I watched a broad-wing hawk land on a dead tree trunk.

He was at eye level, only 20 feet away.

He looked regal and never budged, just eyed me as I gave a wide

birth. I'm sure he was seeking rodents or voles of some kind. I pose no threat, which he must have known.

Earlier in the year, I happened upon a timber doodle in the sky doing his courtship dance for a potential soulmate.

The widening circles followed by a plunge to the ground were terrifically moving.

The above are recent logs entered in a bird book I've recently purchased. I'm attempting to keep a journal of sightings of the avian species during morning walks.

In my head, I am composing an imaginary essay titled,

In Defense of Bird Watching and Writing Poems about Finches.

Lately, I've had conversations where talk of birds is the equivalent of talk of weather, a signifier of what we avoid in our daily

conversation and poems in lieu of more urgent and pressing topics.

Remarks critical of writing about birds parallel

disparaging comments of writings about gardens and nature walks through

state parks. The belief is that such writings are an indulgence in an age

in which it seems the world is going up in flames. That's one perspective.

If only we viewed observations of the natural world and meditations on birds, mammals, and plant life as equally, critically urgent, we might awaken to the

necessity of caretaking our planet and each other. Birdwatching does not have to be a form of looking away.

It can be an antidote for our spirit.

I've made natural environments my sanctuary because of the violence and trauma I've witnessed in my life.

To take an interest in birds and the outdoors is the comfort I require when all else feels insurmountable.

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