Before the mountains found their weight in the earth,
before the rivers dared to carve their stories into stone,
the sky was a wide and endless breath,
open to those brave enough to lift their eyes.
In that vastness, the Hawk was born.
It rose not to flee the ground,
but to see it more fully —
to trace the hidden paths of rivers beneath forests,
to watch the slow breathing of stones beneath moss and time.
The Hawk did not hunt only for hunger.
It hunted for knowing.
It rose not only on the wind,
but on the longing to see what others missed —
the faint ripple of a truth moving across still waters,
the quicksilver flash of a moment that would soon be lost.
Among the people, it is said:
When the Hawk circles high above your path,
it is not simply searching for prey.
It is asking a question:
"Will you lift your gaze?
Will you see beyond what fear shows you?"
The Hawk teaches:
That vision is not given to those who wait on the ground,
but to those who dare the thin air,
to those willing to climb within themselves
until the world unfolds in all its hidden currents.
It teaches that clarity is not the absence of shadow,
but the ability to see shadow and light woven into one living tapestry.
Even now, when the sky bruises with storm,
and the winds call with wild voices,
those who pause and watch may glimpse it:
A sharp-winged spirit carving circles in the breath of the world —
turning not with panic,
but with purpose.
Because where the Hawk turns,
sight sharpens,
and the soul remembers how to fly.
