Today may have been the day the fledglings flew.

I’ve been watching the nest—a Cooper’s hawk nest three blocks away—closely for the better part of at least two weeks, hoping not to miss the fledging. In my wildest dreams, I would be right there when one or more of the babes flew for the first time. Realistically, I think my main hope was to monitor the situation and know—or nearly know, as much as possible without actually seeing—when it had happened.

I missed it last year. After weeks of watching the nest, from its construction, to Mama Hawk sitting it by herself first for weeks, even before having eggs to warm (they really do this!), clear through to little heads peering occasionally above its rim, I was on vacation when the fledglings flew. It was a needed and happy vacation—almost certainly Hound Dog’s last one, and he enjoyed it—but I was sad to come home and find the nest emptied, defunct. Sadder than ever I would have imagined.

So with Hound Dog unable to travel anymore, and his people no longer willing to leave him in anyone else’s care, I’ve pinned a lot of hope on being around for this year’s fledging. The hawks are back at the same nest for a second straight year. (I say “the hawks,” but I’ve no idea whether it’s the same birds, young who were raised in the nest last year, or an entirely different pair that happened upon it and found it. What I do know is that it has been occupied with Cooper’s hawks yet again, more joy for me.) And I’ve been watching it closely, walking past multiple times each day, once even making The Husband stop the car so I could get out and check the view on the way to some outing or other.

This past week or two has seen a lot of activity. The adults have been perched just outside the nest most of the time, sometimes seeming to feed the babes but often just perched, as if there weren’t actually enough room inside for them anymore. Two to three days ago, I saw a pair of youngsters perched on nest’s edge, flapping a bit, probably testing out those wings, while one of the adults called out from a nearby tree, perhaps encouraging them to soar.

I haven’t actually seen any of the young (and how many are there, even?) fly from the nest. But this morning when I went past, I saw no birds at all for the first morning in more than a week. I did hear one hawk call from nearby, but the nest looked empty. Had they flown? It seemed likely. From my vantage point down below, of course, there’s no way to be sure, but…

This afternoon, as I stood chatting with my neighbor outside our two houses, a young hawk flew overhead. One of the babes from my nest three blocks away? I think so. It’s the first time all summer that I’ve seen a hawk on my block, and it was a small one. I’ll keep watching that nest, but I think our little family might have lifted off.

Though I’m uncertain about the hawks, there’s no question that a hummingbird just made its daily pass among the branches of the large tree on my tree lawn. I never knew before that they would feed in trees, but this one does a fly-through every day, hovering branch to branch in apparent search for food. My lilacs also attract hummingbirds when in bloom, and the trumpet vine in the back yard is in full glory right now, so we have plenty of nectar for those long beaks.

The plants feed the hummingbirds. The hummingbirds feed my soul.

Today is also the day that I finished Tracy K. Smith’s memoir To Free the Captives. More than memoir (not that memoir isn’t enough!), it’s an exploration of racism and Black history and shared history, and a (perhaps) prayer for progress and equity and healing. It reads often like poetry, almost one long prose poem, as much as the series of essays that it is. It’s moving, thought-provoking, challenging, and I expect I’ll be thinking about it for quite some time.

This has been memoir month for me, as the book I read immediately before this one was Knife, Salman Rushdie’s memoir of the 2022 knife attack that nearly killed him. I’m still thinking about this one, too, as well as about expanding my list-of-books-I’ve read-by-Salman-Rushdie. It’s been a long time since I read his fiction, the last time being my second pass through Midnight’s Children, courtesy of my book club, and I miss it. I’m reminded of seeing him speak about his writing and free speech as part of the Chicago Humanities Festival—hardly seems possible that was nine years ago, but apparently it was.