"Maybe"

The sky now divides
To bring you back into the fold
Welcome home

Still my need to recognize
Any comfort you might share
Only grows

Guess I'll learn to accommodate
While my heart just sits and waits

Maybe God you found
Maybe is all you can offer now

Where am I to take refuge
When the storms of pain release
Shelter me

This blessedness of life
Sometimes brings me to my knees
I call on thee

I have not the words to write
A farewell to you tonight

Maybe God you found
Maybe is all that you can offer now

I know hearts are weeping
While your pure voice is loudly singing
Angel on high, Angel on high

Saw "my" red tail at Pearson Mill SRA today. A bonus! He is exceptionally white down under and gorgeous even while flying away. The last two days he has taken wing out over the reservoir, a rare, unobstructed-view treat.

Since I have made efforts for over 35 years to overcome my "Woman-on-a Pedestal" Boomer mentality, I feel obligated to explain why I choose the pronoun "he".

In the Raptor World, male and female differences are expressed in relative size, not color. A female Northern Cardinal is a muted lavender, while the male is the brightest red.

And the females rule the roost, always.

That is a key.

If "my" red tail was a female, she would have ninety potential suitors crowding her day and night, until she drove off eighty-nine of them.

There was an American Kestrel on a wire along the access road to the SRA yesterday. First time I've seen one in the area, which I have visited routinely since last summer.
His (see above) colors were brilliant and beautiful, even on a cold, gloomy mid-winter day.

The song is "Maybe", written by Ed Rowland, a superlative singer/songwriter, who fronts a good band, Collective Soul.

This song was written for Kib Browning.

It is here officially rededicated to Kristal Danae, who chose, on a late, cool night in early June, to tackle a semi rather than face whatever waited for her in her bedroom.

I have turned this over and over since early June, daily, over and over again. It always comes back to one thing.

There is only that one thing that could force a beautiful 14 year old girl out of her house late on a cool June night and into the mouth of a semi.

I am haunted. I knew Kristal was miserable, as was her mother, and I failed her completely by not recognizing her despair.

I visit her grave often, a sorry substitute for not saving her.

There is a peace in the ground that had to be worth the taste of a 60 mph hog hauler.