“Look! You can see how it just flickers its wings for a brief moment, and then hovers. It’s a kestrel!”
As the car continues, I twist and crane my neck to keep it in view.
“They’re slightly reddish in colour, though against the light perhaps you can’t see. There it goes!”
Closing its wings, it plummets to the ground. Moments later, it flaps heavily off to a location more distant from the road.
“I think it’s got something! Look how much slower it is now.”
The car rounds the bend, and the kestrel and its prey vanish behind a heather-clad cutting.
Sparrowhawk is something else. Sitting in the living room, face steaming with the healing vapours of thick cocoa, I gaze out at the snow. On the multi-headed bird feeder – more like a tree – they’re busy. Great tits, blue tits, chaffinches. Blackbirds and dunnets on the ground, gathering up the crumbs from under thy table.
Suddenly, a great scatter. They explode in all directions, like a silent, feathery firework.
Bang! Something hits the window glass.
Looking out, I see a pitiful small corpse. A chaffinch, so dusty-grey pink in its fine breast feathers, lies in the snow.
We pull on wellies and go round to the now deserted terrace. Picking up her frail warm form, cradling it in my hands.
“She may be OK still. Bring her inside in the warm.”
Inside, in a shoebox, sentinels warding off the cat, the fragile bird gradually comes round.