I live in a land of thrushes, and of sparrowhawks.
In summer she waits. The female hawk. Perched on the thick overarching hedgerows that border the back roads in summer.
The hedges are thronged with thrushes and blackbirds. Safe, hidden in amongst the thorn trees. Bread and butter for sparrowhawks is she can but flush them.
We trundle down the road in our car and, often enough, the female hawk is in front of us.
She is smart. She flies in front of the car, sometimes for hundreds of meters. Waiting for the car to flush her prey for her.
Thrushes explode from the hawthorn stirred by the rumble of our car, and she bursts back through the hedge chasing her quarry, punching through a gap like a closed fist.
I see the hawk. Hunting. I have seen her full tilt wheel and bank mere feet from my face. I have seen her burst through the woodland brash not three feet from me, plunging into a grassy bank, and look back from the far side of the road, piercing eye regarding mine. Taking me in. Assaying me. Dismissing me. Neither hunter nor prey.
I live in a land of sparrowhawks and thrushes. Of sleek and fearless martens. Of wild and wheeling buzzards. Of ravens. Of roaring stags in the woods.
I count myself blessed to farm here.
