EDITOR’S NOTE: Do you “read the signs”—not those posted along roadsides that inform our directional navigation and serve as overt instructions for what we are supposed to do. When you’re immersed in the outdoors, what are you able to decipher from the vocalizations of animals, the flow of a river or condition of a landscape? Poet Lois Red Elk ponders this often. Her poem, “When Hawks Cry We Don’t Look For Godot,” below. is a reminder of her own cultural teaching—that more important than just hearing is listening to other creatures and translating their communication into meaning. —Todd Wilkinson
When Hawks Cry
We Don’t Look For Godot
by Lois Red Elk
Driving down 3rd Avenue south I thought I saw four
men standing under the trees near the bridge. I had to
take a quick second look. That’s when I briefly saw them—
four spirits. Their silhouettes resembled someone I knew,
or was related to, like an uncle or a cousin. Just passing
through the underpass I decided to do a U-turn. Two of
the men reminded me of someone from a long time ago
who lost themselves in an untimely event, but they still
claimed their right to be, to occupy a space with minimal
energy. Of course they had been seen there many times
before. I had to make sure it was real. You know, like
when eyes betray or when a drifting mind does not
synchronize with vision. But, yes, there were four of them,
but not spirits just the local street people, all looking off
in the distance. I quickly searched the direction they were
facing. There was no one. But yet it seemed like there
was an energy heading their way, coming to satisfy a thirst
that needed to be quenched sooner than later. The air was
filled with drifting breath caught by the frost forming on
their upturned collars and caps, a little bit of evidence of
life spilling from their still forms. I didn’t want to think
any further about their day, their life, their future. It was
my urgent decision for my own day, so much work to do.
But mine wasn’t enough. I had to pray, had to send some
words to our common spirits, had to remember the blood
and birthright we shared. Just as quick as I opened my
mouth to utter a quiet word, I heard the whistle of a hawk.
Why on such a cold day, why right in the middle of town.
I circled the block to try and catch a glimpse of the red-tail
in flight. As I rounded the corner I saw others searching
the sky for the unusual site. All of a sudden it came to me,
the story my father shared. When hawks cry someone will
be asking us for help. I decided to stop and pulled my car
into the nearby parking lot. Just as I opened my door, a
cousin walked over and asked if I heard that hawk. I said I
had and was going to park and look. He said, so you thought
we were all looking for Godot? I broke out in laughter at
his intelligent wit. He said, sometimes we are looking for
Godot, but when hawks cry we know someone is asking for
help. I paused a long time searching his face then asked, so
who is asking for help? He said we are always in need of
help. Another car pulled up with coffee and rolls from the
casino across the street. It was a local minister who stopped
and asked if he could pray with them. One of the group shied
away but the others agreed. While they prayed I heard off in
the distance one more cry from the hawk.
©Lois Red Elk
