On the twenty-third day of the eighth month in the twenty-first year in a quiet valley hidden away from the world a small gray pigeon is pecking at seeds lying on the ground. Above the pigeon is their flock flying in quick circles above a meadow speckled with yellow and orange dandelions. Just above the flock a red tail hawk flies even quicker, swooping down to collect the pigeon on the ground. With his chosen in his grasp the hawk lifts into the air over a fiery burnt crimson sun that is slowly falling behind the violet hued mountains that encircle the quiet valley like a stone fortress. 

The hawk soars over the valley basin where the pink and blue streaked sunset sky reflects on a bent crooked river that snakes its watery path through a soft patchwork quilt of thick emerald green forests and golden fields. The hawk performs a few aerial stunts while clutching the pigeon in his dusty tan talons before gliding to his nest of oak twigs lined with dark brown bark situated in a tree on a rocky bluff overlooking the valley. Dueling choirs of black crickets chant their tribal songs in syncopated harmony. The hawk’s small furry white offspring eagerly chirping their hunger welcomes their father’s offering with satisfying silence as the mother piecemeals their portions to them.  The sound of coyotes singing praise to the silver light of a fool’s moon can be heard echoing off the mountain cliffs. From this view in this moment the world is a shining example of perfection*.  Just beneath the nest is the reason this moment will be shattered. 

*unless you ask the pigeon