Red kites wheeled, gliding in the thermals, spiraling in silence, so little effort, such majestic concentration.
Eyes capable of seeing a mouse move in the muddy furrows. Avian athleticism that could create a dive from the heights to the earth perfectly executed with no need for computation. The knowledge is held in heartbeats and wingbeats and the alignment of feather and outstretched claws.
How can we not be awe-struck by so much power and precision in a creature so alien and so alive?
Ted Hughes wrote a wonderful poem, 'Hawk Roosting', which I thought of the other day when I passed a tree where a bird of prey sat hunched against the weather, watching. I thought, 'Is it a peregrine?' My father a week or so ago saw the peregrines that nest in Ely Cathedral and I read that they roost in London too.
Turns out, they live on the old lift-testing tower in Northampton as well, but I don't think I've seen any. I thought I saw a merlin 18 months ago. I claim it. Along with kestrels, kites and buzzards. But, really, they could be anything. And i don't really care. They're wonderful.
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