Little birds — sparrows, juncos, chickadees — dance at the feeder, filling their bellies. A red-tailed hawk hides in the trees at the back of the pond, waiting patiently as snow and wind whirl and howl. I wonder if he is contemplating the animal tracks in the snow and on the ice, hoping to manifest breakfast. Pema Chödrön said, “Give up all hope of fruition,” because hope robs us of the present moment. The hawk abandons hope and swoops. Breakfast has arrived.