Another jingle-jangle morning moment, a ringing of ringtones, a charm of goldfinches. Out of cover they came, a convivial flock of half a dozen, with their bouncy, buoyant flight, all twitter without end. Up and over the road, hedge-hopping. Such a spirit-lifter. The little charmers.
A hawk bolted out from the trees. Frighteningly fast at fashioning all her parts into single-mindedness, a tilting tail her rudder, her wings an engine swept right back to show a barrel chest, the strong bars, dark on light, a predator’s livery. In that terrible instant, when she spread her power, she looked so dreadfully big, size without bulk, exhibiting grace without favour. And they so pitifully small, a huddle of a flock. Even their weight combined would be less than half of hers. But could she catch up with her quarry?
Coming in from the wings gave the female sparrowhawk what little time she needed to make up airspace. In that short measure, she was not on their direct flightpath, not at their tails, but most definitely in pursuit. She cut a diagonal towards the finches that for too long seemed to be caught unawares, flying instead of fleeing. She locked on behind the flock. The quickening chase lasted two seconds, no more. They were flying away from me, so I could judge trajectory though not the distance between hunter and hunted.
The sparrowhawk veered off to the left. Was she after a finch that had panicked and split from the flock, or was she exiting with her prize? Her wingbeats slowed, talons trailing from her undercarriage, a tiny bundle like a cricketer’s catch caught in her claws.
Five finches kept their charmed lives. I did not see them go, but I doubt they looked back. The hawk bore the unlucky one off to the tallest tree. I saw her drop into the foliage. There among the leaves she stilled its beating heart, and soon she lifted off again, the finch clasped in her grip. No need for haste or speed now, just a steady flap and the prospect of a meal at her leisure.
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