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Hawk on the Clock Tower
A short story by Stephen Leary
They were new in town and did not know any of the people they passed in the hallways to and from the elevator or downstairs in the lounge at the front desk.
Their apartment was on the seventh floor facing the street and the plaza. A clock tower at the intersection served as the town’s most recognizable monument.
The rain had stopped. It still dripped from the trees and had collected in small pools at the plaza. The benches were still wet.
Opposite the plaza was the river. When all was quiet, she liked to sit on the balcony and listen to its turbulent waters. Bushy oak trees clustered on a hill further beyond.
She hung her birdcage out on the balcony. The little creature fluttered about inside, stimulated by the open environment. She hated keeping it indoors all day, thinking it must be unhappy. The other little birds in the neighborhood might come and keep it company.
Every day she loaded the bird feeder.
“It was three-quarters full,” she said to him. “It used to be half full whenever I would refill it. I’m not getting as many customers.”
The wife stood looking out the window past the balcony to the plaza and the clock tower. A hawk had perched on top and was surveying the scene.
“Oh, look,” she said.
“What?”
“On the clock tower. Isn’t that a hawk?”
He retrieved his binoculars from the closet and trained his sight on the tower.
“Yep. That’s a red-tailed hawk. They’re common around here. I’m pretty sure a bald eagle’s nest is up in those oak trees. I think I saw an owl a while back heading to the river.”
“He’s up to no good,” she said.
“Is he?”
“They prey on smaller birds, don’t they?”
“He’s doing what nature told him to do.” He put down the binoculars and tossed them on the couch next to his true crime paperback on serial killers.
“It’s scary to think about what he does to the birds around here.”
“Then you shouldn’t think about it.”
“My Polly isn’t safe out here. He saw I’m putting her out here on the balcony.”
She stood next to the birdcage, her eyes on the hawk.
He had returned to the living room, fiddling with the remote control to find a good TV channel.
The hawk remained on the clock tower, motionless, as if waiting for something.
She took the cage off its hook. Carrying it inside, she hung it in its usual place across from the TV.
“It’s safe in here,” she said. The parakeet flitted from the sides of the cage to its perch. “I can’t just leave her out there for the hawk to get at.”
He said nothing. Grabbing the remote, he turned up the volume.
“I just don’t see as many birds,” she said. “I think that hawk killed them.”
He checked the online guide for a program he wanted to watch later in the day.
She went back to the balcony. “He just sits up there on the clock tower, staring.”
“What’s that?”
“I said he’s just sitting over there watching. He’s waiting to kill another bird.”
“Nothing to worry about,” he counseled.
“Maybe I should call the city.”
“What’s that?”
“The city. I might call them. About the hawk.”
“They can’t do anything,” he said. “They aren’t going to arrest a hawk for killing birds.”
“There must be fish in the river,” she said. The churning waves of the dissonant river beyond the plaza were audible from their balcony. “You’d think that would be enough for him.”
“Hawks have a right to do what they do.” He had settled into the couch half-asleep. “Let hawks be hawks.”
“Let caged birds be caged birds!” she retorted.
Staring out the window, she recalled the big city. The perpetual stress. Too many people. Too much crime. She had wanted a slower pace but wasn’t ready for the country. A small rural town. It would be too much of a culture shift. She wasn’t that kind of a person. This city was a happy medium. Not too big and not too small. Just right.
She had been a counselor at a mental health center. But she came to feel she needed to be a patient more than a therapist.
He was a manager in a medium-sized company with oversight of three staffers. Finding a similar job here was quick and easy. Jobs like his were always available.
She puttered about in the kitchen. Wiping the stove and preparing something simple.
He had woken from his slumber on the couch and gone to the balcony.
“Look!” He was excited. Nature in action did that to him. Made him emotional. He pointed up in the sky. “He’s circling!”
“Who, the hawk?”
“Harry the hawk! That’s what I’m calling him. He’s looking for his prey!”
“He better stay away from my bird!”
She glanced back at the living room, and at the birdcage near the TV, and was reassured Polly was safe. The idea of the hawk stalking smaller birds for its meal terrified her. It seemed so unfair. A big, strong bird picking on a much smaller and weaker one. It shouldn’t be that way, she thought.
“Look, look, look!” he cried. “Harry’s swooping down!”
They watched as the hawk attacked a yellow finch as it attempted to flee away to safety. The hawk was too fast. He caught the finch in his beak and carried him away to his nest.
“That poor little bird!” she exclaimed. “That was…awful.”
“Nature has its own rules,” he concluded. “That’s what’s supposed to happen.”
He returned to the couch and grabbed the remote. On his favorite channel, lions chased impalas on the Serengeti.
She locked the sliding glass door. She didn’t want to go out there anymore. With the hawk as a constant sentinel, she couldn’t take Polly out. The clock tower had become something disgusting. She avoided looking at it.
They were both inside. He lay on the sofa; she puttered in the kitchen. The hawk had swooped down from up high and sat on the metal railing of their balcony. As if triumphant, as if he is waiting for them to see him.
The man roused himself again and, having seen something, unlocked the glass door, and looked out toward the clock tower.
“Harry the hawk was on our balcony!”
“He was?” she cried. “What does he think he’s doing here!”
“You’ve got food out there.”
She noticed now that her feeder was empty. “He ate my birdseed!”
“He’s your bird now.”
“He’ll never be my bird!”
She went out, removed the feeder, and brought it inside. “This isn’t for him!”
She had no interest in the TV or the kitchen. Her focus was on her bird in its cage. She watched Polly flitting about while playing with her toys inside the cage. She watched her for a very long time. It brought her some kind of inner peace, a few moments of tranquility that she couldn’t find doing anything else.
He had gone out, promising to bring something back from the store.
The hawk was in its usual spot, perched on the clock tower. He sat motionless as if waiting for something. His attention was fixated on their balcony and the glass door behind it.
She had avoided the view of the plaza but looked again in spite of herself. Glancing over for a moment, she saw his figure on the tower where it always was. He was there. Whenever she unlatched the slide door, her heart beat faster. Repressing the anxiety wasn’t easy, despite her awareness of it, despite her training. She felt helpless. He was out there and there was nothing she could do.
She drew the drape across the sliding glass door, hiding the view from her sight. But it didn’t help. She couldn’t get the idea out of her mind that the hawk was out there, on the clock tower, watching, as if waiting for something.
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