Wild birds are squawking in the gum tree and I see movement in the grass below. A bobbing head, something is amiss. I open the kitchen door and step outside. With a sudden, strong flap of its wings, a goshawk rises from the ground in a cloud of grey and white feathers. Not an angel fallen to earth but the death of a white-headed pigeon. A flotilla trails the hawk into the distance as I walk up to a pile of fresh feathers, no body, only feathers. It is springtime and the hawk has young to feed. GBW © 2019
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
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