"Max, you've got to help. I've got a wounded hawk in the van, and I've got to get to work. I'll ride my bike." My nephew handed me his keys.

"A hawk? Peter, what am I supposed to do with a hawk?"

"Take him to an avian vet. He's a red tail." The was no arguing. Peter already had his bike off the rack on the back of his VW bus.

I shook my head in disbelief. "Don't hawks have claws?"

"Talons. But he won't hurt you. I spoke to him in his own language. It's a combination of movement and sound." Peter went into a series of stiff jerky poses and emitted a low trilling cooing sound. The effect was very bird-like. "Try that. Try speaking to him."

It was typical Peter, the tie-dyed-in-the-wool hippie. Only the hippies were around when he was born. He calls himself an E.L.F. -- Eco Logical Friend. At six foot four and 30 years old, he makes an unlikely elf. He has long straw blond hair and beard, and he's thin and rangy, all limbs.

Peter has a philosophy that goes with all this elf business. It's a little kooky, sure. But I know in my heart that the world would be a better place if everybody moved somewhat toward Peter's attitude about life and our place on the planet.

Peter can have a profound effect on people. When he first showed up in Miami, he was shocked that I was trading in pork bellies. He harangued me with a graphic screed about how animals are treated by the meat processing industry. Finally I agreed to stay out of meat futures forever. Within a month, my net worth ticked up 10 percent. "Elf magic," he called it.

"Where'd you find the hawk?"

"On the MacArthur Causeway."

"You stopped on the MacArthur Causeway and did that bird dance routine? You're lucky you didn't get hit."

"Gotta run, Max. I'm late. See you after work. He straddled his bike and peddled off. I went into the house for hawk-proof clothing -- jeans, a leather jacket, gardening gloves. I found an avian vet in the yellow pages and let her know I was coming. I grabbed a big beach towel to wrap the bird before I put him in my car. There was no way I was going to drive Pete's ancient van. It was always in need of a jump start.

Jon, who owns the four-unit building next door, was getting out of his car. "What are you dressed like that for?" he wanted to know. "It's 80 degrees out."

"There's a wounded hawk in my nephew's van. I'm taking it to a vet."

"A hawk? No kidding. Can I have one of his tail feathers for my straw hat?"

"Get the hell out of here." Jon shrugged and walked away as I slid open the van door. The hawk had its head tucked beneath a wing. I figured I'd throw a towel over the bird and grab him while he was asleep. As soon as I touched him, though, he showed his head. His golden eyes held all the fierceness and majesty of the natural world. The hawk spread its wings, opened its beak, hissed, began to lean back, and toppled over. It was pretty clear, even to my untrained eye, that his left leg and wing were severely damaged. My leather jacket and gloves suddenly seemed like overkill. I tried my version of deep cooing and trilling, but it didn't quite come off. The hawk just glared. I bundled him in the towel as gently as possible and transferred him to my Audi. He collapsed in a disarray of feather on the floor behind the front passenger seat.

The vet's office was like ER for animals -- two vets and two technicians went to work on the hawk immediately. As I turned to leave, an uncharacteristic emotional lump caught in my throat. "You can call on Friday to see how the bird's doing," one of the vets said. I nodded and squawked, "Thanks. I will."

I was niggling my commodities charts on the computer, half wondering when Peter would pick up his keys, when the call came that he'd been hit by a drunk driver. I grabbed a throwaway Kodak at a convenience store on the way to the hospital and spent the next three hours waiting. Finally, they let me see him in intensive care. It was worse than I'd anticipated. His left eyelid was nearly torn off. Both legs, both arms and his left shoulder all were broken. His left bicep had been ripped nearly completely off, then sewn back on. Four teeth were missing. The first thing he asked, in a raspy, agonized whisper, was, "How's the hawk?"

"The hawk's fine," I said. Then I began snapping away.

Phil, a personal injury lawyer who is part of our biweekly poker game, took the case. He complimented me on getting the photos before the plastic surgeon fixed the eyelid. Peter stayed with me for his recuperation. The hawk, meanwhile, underwent surgery before being transferred to the Florida Keys Wild Bird Center in Tavernier. He had some nerve damage and would never be rehabilitated enough to live in the wild again. Phil said the same was more or less true of Peter. The doctors say he'll always have a limp.

Peter started visiting the hawk at the Florida Keys Wild Bird Center as soon as he was able. At first I would drive him. After three months he was able to drive himself. At the end of six months he took a job there as an intern.

The insurance company was eager to settle once it found out how drunk their client was when she hit Peter. Phil played the photos like a royal flush and nailed the firm for $300,000. Then, when Peter told him what to do with the money, Phil proved that even lawyers can be human sometime. Or maybe it was elf magic.

Phil handled the transfer of the funds and Peter's agreement with the bird center pro bono. Phil also waived his fee of one third of the settlement. He kept five grand for out-of-pocket expenses. I'm sure he took a much-deserved tax break.

So now Peter has a place to live and a job for the rest of his life. The bird center's endowment is considerably more well endowed. Laura, the woman who runs the center, is thrilled. She says Peter is brilliant with the raptors. The hawks, ospreys, kestrels and owls all respond to his secret language of movement and sound.

I went down last week and took Peter out for some Chinese food. We both had the Buddh delight. After dinner I asked him if he ever regretted giving all that money away, if he ever thought about what else he could have done with it. He took a deep breath and sat up very straight, and gave me a piercing stare. I was reminded of the hawk that day in the back of the van. But Peter didn't topple over. He held my gaze with his and, in that intense way he has, said, "Max, simplicity of character is the result of profound thought."

I thought about it for a moment and smiled. "If you say so, Peter."

He smiled back. "I don't. My fortune cookie does."