Voices on the Wind Voices in Tribute
Too Late byy Kathy Swackhamer Walking Reid Park in Tucson’s howling heat, George—flash of white hair, beard, glasses— towers. His mind wheels ahead, voice shortcuts to catch up. Suddenly, arm missiles, and finger homes toward a blur. “Cooper’s hawk just hooked a mouse.” Too late, I squint at empty, shivering air. I want to be everything George is— look out from his summit-edge view, absorb the white brightness of his knowing, perform that sorcery inside his head. But, again, too late— his name has been called in the night to a whispered world ahead. I, no more a child playing “George”, let his life fall gently on mine as shadows of that hawk pass through me.