There is a certain kind of attitude that accompanies long moments of observation in the field. As I walk along I notice the slightest perturbation in the landscape, a distant black agglomeration of matter that turns into, upon inspection with my binoculars, a Red-Tailed Hawk, furthermore one that I have not noticed here before. 

The eye particularly enjoys running down the fall of the slope as it quarters away from you, the line of the hill becoming exaggerated so that even tucked into a leafless Scotch broom a juvenile Cooper's Hawk becomes a bird from two hundred yards away. Attention becomes an aspect of existence, existence becomes all that's necessary. Birds come to me. Walking along my favorite path near my home is akin to taking a journey into my visions where suddenly, unexpectedly I see the form of an old friend become corporeal only to flutter out of my view after a few moments. If, perchance, I take my eye off the bird, I am often astonished how quickly it vanishes - and then there I remember that the world of psyche is no different.

Attention.