Kirk Ridgeway
April 9, 1948-March 1, 2026
Davis, CA, California, U.S.

I found the feather of a Hawk and walked with it. I felt its edge cut into the wind, lifting and falling with each twist I gave. I felt its weight become weightless when the pitch was just right and the air flowed smoothly. For an hour, I played and became the bird sensing each change of now, responding to each new movement feeling the pleasure of feathers. Now I watch the hawk circling, swooping gliding, I watch him adjust his wings flap to change his course, float on wind. Because I walked with a feather I know the feeling of flight, the hawk, the wind. Because I sit on this log silently watching and alone, I know these things. -- Kirk Ridgeway, May 6, 1993. (Pleasanton Poet Laurette 2002-2004)

Tags: veteran