Passion = Truth? How Jeffrey James Francis Ircink Sees The World? I love when people are passionate about something. That surging of emotion is the one honest measure of what truth is. It's a truthful display of how a person really feels about something or someone at that particular moment. That passion IS truth.

About me...

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Greendale, Wisconsin, United States
Ex-producer of THE REALLY FUNNY HORNY GOAT INTERNATIONAL SHORT FILM FESTIVAL, playwright, actor, singer, outdoorsman, blogger, amateur photog, observer & bitcher, Beach Boys groupie, Brett Favre fanatic, lover of everything Celtic and forever a member in the Tribe of HAIR. Spent most of my life in the Village of Waterford, a small town just outside of the Milwaukee suburbs. After 12 years in North Hollywood, Bel Air and Culver City, Cali, I moved back to Wisconsin in September 2009. No regrets - of moving to LA OR moving back to WI. Have traveled to Belfast, Ireland, Dayton (OH), Manhattan, Seattle, Cedar Rapids, New York, Miami and Sydney, Australia with my plays. Moved back into the Village of Greendale where I was born. Life is good.


Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Ezra the Juvenile.

Monday's are the shittiest day of the week. Mine was even shittier. We have a family of red-tailed hawks that live at the cemetery where I work during the summer. Beautiful, regal birds. They've lived there for a few years, nesting atop an evergreen tree. The male and female mate for life and as far as we know, Ezra (above) was their only offspring. Ezra was born in the spring, a "juvenile" -  meaning it hasn't reached sexual maturity - which in Ezra's case would be two years. We don't know Ezra's sex so we'll just say he's a "he".

Monday morning, Bryan and I found Ezra on the ground below the nest, lying on its back. As far as we could determine, Ezra's back had been broken. We have no idea how. Perhaps a flying miscalculation? Who knows.

We kept an eye on Ezra all morning, turning him on his stomach to see if that helped. However, he slowed down as the morning passed. We called a vet, the DNR, Human Society, shelter - no one would come out to the cemetery. There was nothing they could do for him.

- - - - - - -

The hawks were untypically quiet all day. Do you suppose they knew their Ezra had passed? Were they looking for him? Later on in the afternoon, I saw mom and dad hawk soaring above, riding those thermal drafts - floating, wing-to-wing. At one point, I saw one of the hawks roosting in a tree I had never seen them roost in - a tree overlooking the baby section of the cemetery.

And Bryan and I were quieter than usual that day. Ezra was a part of our daily life and I can't stop thinking about him. So, writer-Jeff composed this haiku, in memory of Ezra the Juvenile:

look yonder, young hawk!
soar! cry! kree-eee-ar! kree-eee-ar! search the sky!
silence. listen...kree-eee-ar!

Before giving Ezra a proper burial (as only we would know how to do), Bryan and I each took one of Ezra's tail feathers, held sacred to many American Indian tribes - our way of honoring our friend. Take a look at this video - an up-close look at a trained red-tailed hawk...much like Ezra the Juvenile.

Goodbye, Ezra...may you soar in peace for a thousand years. You will be missed.

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