Hate him or love him (one of my creative writing teachers once scathingly wrote him off as a try-hard attempting to be what Raymond Carver is), there is something immediate and vital about Hemingway’s writing. The rhythm of the sentences, with recurring words like “blowing,” “hills,” even “and,” create a closed circuit of a particular experience of life that you can almost feel as the scene is described by its sensations.
The exception is the second “living was.” It is a very sparse sentence with no action (besides “being”) or “and.” What is a hawk in the sky? Living. Nothing else. No interpretation or qualification—it just is.
I’m tempted to try and make a profound observation about this, but I feel that the passage is, like life, its own justification; Make of both what you will.