In a glorious morning after a grey day of battle, I sit and see the world again.
The red fox trots along the sideline of the yard, oblivious to me but hearing just as I the calling of the hawk. From beneath the trees out back, the hawk now silent as his wings, follows him. Flashing red feathers and bright yellow beaks go this way and that, the family of five cardinals torn asunder by the danger now past.
I sit and finally can smile with some sense of righteous victory, war-weary, proud of the single hard-won windmill blade of truth that gleams within my soul.