I walked to the gate early this morning while coffee was brewing. How many times have I seen this beautiful old oak tree? Many, many, many. But this morning, the way the sun painted it with light, it just bowled me over. The resident hawk and I exchanged whistled greetings. He flew over, gave me a sharp look, held still for a moment directly above me, and then waggled his wings in what seemed to me like recognition and greeting.