I am becoming in-tuned with inner rhythms and patterns and the way they reach outward once mature. It seems
a bit take it inward,
swing it out later to share,
take it inward yet again, swing it out once more.

Before I reached San Francisco, I stayed in what appeard to me an overused and dying town, Half Moon Bay, and there I saw 8 hawks hovering as I entered town. This seemed a strange and peculiar site, so I began to take note. Hawks hovering at the roadside, gallantly sweeping their wings back and forth, straining to keep the whole self in place. Hawks, midair in the centers of fields, flapping for all they’re worth, fighting against the pull of the wind. It takes much more energy to hover than to soar. It takes more energy for a bird to stay in one place than to flow with the wind.

And I, I have been going into the wind this entire trip. Once or twice I have felt the angelic presence of a tailwind ushering me forward, but mostly it is up and into as I fly onward in exploration.

That evening in Half Moon Bay, having some time on my hands, I looked into hovering and discovered that it is the kestrel, of all birds of prey, that has garnered the name Windhoverer and even Windfucker, for this bird primarily hunts in hover stance, getting an ultimate bird’s eye view from 30-60 ft.

To earn the title of windhoverer, one must be able to hover in the wind, to hover meaning to wait, tarry or linger. Think of how much force an individual organism must gather and mobilize in order to remain stationary amid, against the force of the wind.

Looking back into old meanings of the word fuck, as the title windfucker from the 1590s interests me, I find: “Another theory traces it to M.E. fyke, fike “move restlessly, fidget,” which also meant “dally, flirt” (Online etymology dictionary). So the windfucker flirts, fidgets, and dallies restlessly with the wind. Ah, now we are getting closer to my meaning of hovering.

A little time outward, sharing gifts, and then it’s time to tarry a bit with the wind, to play as a windfucker, lingering in place, expending energy as I wink and waste time with the wind as he blows through me, nestles me in stillness, screams and whispers secrets in my ears- depending on the mood of the sun and the day.

To hover is as difficult as it looks, and, for the effort, I am seeing the patterns of being from way up on high, taking time out from circling fields to gain one hawk’s eye view, stationary, in place.