The miraculous mimicry of a jay

Two days ago I was very excited to receive advance copies of my brand new book.

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It’s been way too long since I last posted, so I think the advent of my book’s publication is an appropriate excuse to offer something now as a preview into one of the chapters. Here, then, is a little something based on chapter two, which is all about transforming trickster birds in an astounding collection of Old English riddles that only survives–and might have only ever existed–in one manuscript from the 10th century, known as the Exeter Book because it’s been at the cathedral in that city for probably all its lifetime. One of these riddle birds is a jay. A talking jay.

In recent years there’s been a lot of focus on birds’ remarkable vocal abilities. This year, as it happens, is the ‘Year of the Bird‘ for the National Geographic. Their range of articles has sought to celebrate the colourful diversity of bird life, and one focuses specifically on birds’ cognitive abilities, exploring how ingenious and imaginative some species can be.

Not surprisingly, corvids feature pretty heavily. It’s well-known that corvids top the smart bird charts because of their comparatively large forebrains with densely packed neurons. In the article, an eight-year-old girl named Gabi has befriended American crows visiting her garden who habitually bring her gifts. Corvid species, more than any other genus of bird, have demonstrated all sorts of remarkable functions (see here, here and here–for a bit of fun!) that parallel the ‘unique’ capabilities that supposedly set us humans above other creatures.

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Jackdaw. Source: pxhere.

Knowledge of this ingenuity is by no means new, of course. It’s just that scientific studies now are proving the hunches or proverbial lore that has surrounded these species for millennia. Above all, it’s corvine mimcry that most captivates us, not only as a source of marvel, but because it raises questions about our own linguistic abilities. The Greeks and Romans certainly came across talking corvids. I particularly like an anecdote from Plutarch about a barber’s pet jay renowned for its vocal skills (which I came across in Jeremy Mynott’s new book), which one day, upon hearing a trumpet fanfare, falls silent for a period of time. The town’s people cannot fathom what has happened, until it reveals that it was only ‘withholding its mimetic skill while it adjusted and refashioned its voice like a musical instrument. For suddenly its voice returned … and there rang out the music of the trumpets, reproducing all its sequences and every variation in melody and rhythm’.[1]

These abilities are certainly no exaggeration. Jays have a repertoire that can encompass a wide range of other bird species, ‘and a motorbike horn, human voice, whistled songs, barking dog, and (probably) lawnmower’.[2] (See here for a jay mimicking a buzzard.)

When it comes to medieval knowledge of corvid mimicry, there are no shortage of examples again. One piece of classical writing on magpies, by the Roman poet Martial, was certainly known to medieval writers. He has the bird itself tell us that ‘if you did not see me, you would deny that I am a bird’ (Epigram 76). The point here, of course, is that the bird is such a good mimic that one needs to actually have the bird in sight to confirm that it is indeed a bird. It’s this aspect of avian brilliance that I love about Exeter Book Riddle 24 (see here for the Riddle in the original manuscript), which I write about in chapter two of my book.

Ic eom wunderlicu wiht,     wræsne mine stefne,
hwilum beorce swa hund,     hwilum blæte swa gat,
hwilum græde swa gos,     hwilum gielle swa hafoc,
hwilum ic onhyrge      þone haswan earn,
guðfugles hleoþor,      hwilum glidan reorde
muþe gemæne,      hwilum mæwes song,
þær ic glado sitte.     . ᚷ. mec nemnað,
swylce . ᚫ. ond . ᚱ.      . ᚩ. fullesteð,
. ᚻ. ond . ᛁ .     Nu ic haten eom
swa þa siex stafas      sweotule becnaþ.
(Riddle 24)

[I am a wondrous creature. I vary my voice: sometimes bark like a dog, sometimes bleat like a goat, sometimes honk like a goose, sometimes yell like a hawk, sometimes I mimic the ashy eagle—cry of the warbird—sometimes the kite’s voice I speak with my mouth, sometimes the gull’s song, where I sit gladly. G they name me, also Æ and R. O helps, H and I. Now I am called as these six letters clearly indicate.]

The solution to Riddle 24 is definitely a corvid species, because the speaker tells us so: those funny letters which look like something out of Lord of the Rings are Germanic runes–the Anglo-Saxon alphabet from before the days of the Roman alphabet–and when re-arranged correctly they spell out higoræ (Old English for jay, though sometimes translated as magpie). This jay gives a virtuosic performance that suggests to us how tricky, even inadvisable, it can be to categorise and label species with particular characteristics that neatly separate them from all other creatures. As the jay shows us, comically, you can get yourself tied in knots doing this! A mimicking bird is the perfect subject to get across this idea because it can convincingly incorporate the ‘unique’ voices of other creatures into its vocal range in a way that makes things we thought were defining and distinguishable the very opposite–indistinguishable! A jay’s voice is a jay’s voice, but also a goat’s, and a hawks, and a dog’s, and a goose’s, and … . I imagine how this Riddle would change over time as jays in different centuries respond to different stimuli around them. (I think here of the well-known Attenborough clip of the lyrebird mimicking modern man-made sounds).

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A medieval jay (gai). Source: Sherborne Missal (British Library, Add MS 74236).

So this Anglo-Saxon jay mimics other nonhuman voices. Interestingly, the human voice is not included in its repertoire. But I like to think this bird has another trick under its wing. You see, it’s very easy to assume that animals and objects being represented in the Exeter Book Riddles are personified: they usually speak in the first person voice as if they actually have a human voice. Once we remember, though, that we are dealing with no ordinary creature in this particular Riddle, but one that is renowned for mimicking even the human voice, the boundaries change again. The human speaker reciting the poem (and let’s remember that medieval poems were often read out loud) actually becomes one of the many voices adopted by the jay, thus craftily integrating the human voice that at first sight seems to be absent from its list. The jay is not personified, but is actually speaking the poem! This jay with its astonishing vocal abilities, like the magpie in Martial’s epigram, plays a game of hide-and-seek with us. If we did not see it, we would not believe it was a bird.

[1] For a selection of other classical sources dealing with mimicking birds, see Jeremy Mynott, Birds in the Ancient World: Winged Words (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), pp. 143-9.

[2] Stanley Cramp, gen. ed., Birds of the Western Palearctic, 9 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977-94), vol. 8, pp. 19-20.

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A bittern booming in the mire

It’s easy to imagine why some birds appeal so well to our myth-conjuring habits. I think particularly of those species that make a skill of obscurity. Crepuscular birds excel in shadow—the nightjar or woodcock are no more than ghostly silhouettes in dusk-dark. By day you’ve not a chance—their plumage is the very stuff of earth, intricate and cryptic patterns of leaf-litter, mulch, soil.

The bird that most comes to mind for these evasive sleights, though, is the bittern. It does not need darkness; this bird has perfected invisibility in specialist reed bed living. The woodcock’s argillaceous plumage is matched in the bittern by habitat imitation so effective it is remarkable no origin myths have passed down to tell of how the bird sheared from reed in metamorphosis, ripped up from the very same material in which it skulks. It’s colour and striations mimic the close, vertical world of marsh and fen exactly, especially so when the bird lifts its beak right up, narrows itself to reed-thinness and sways gently with the wind-rustling stems.

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A well-camouflaged bittern. Image: Wikipedia Commons.

This morning I’ve been waiting since dawn at Ham Wall RSPB reserve for the briefest of glimpses. It’s April and I can hear one male booming—a sonorous, eerie bass note that carries over a mile. It’s this aspect of the bird, in fact, that humans have responded to for millennia. The many dialect terms for the bittern show alliterative playfulness with the bird’s reverberations: butter bump, bog bumper, bog blutter. These marvellous names go way back. In the Anglo-Saxon age, when King Alfred was hiding out here on the swampy Levels, the bird was a raredumle, probably meaning  something like ‘reed-boomer’. By the late Middle Ages, the vernacular term was miredromble, but the English language also adopted French bitour, which became ‘bittern’. The strange booming spurred inventive explanations about how ‘a bitore bombleth in the myre’ by lowering its head ‘unto the water doun’ (Chaucer), or blowing through a reed. Inevitably, the supernatural aspect of the disembodied noise associated it with omen and disaster.

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Image: RSPB

The old names alert us to the priority given to bird sound in the past, and even now the bittern is certainly a bird more encountered by its unique call than sight. Its presence in the once extensive marshes of Britain bred inventive myths down the centuries. Here on the Levels, bitterns stalked the prehistoric swamps alongside pelicans, cranes and white-tailed eagles. Neolithic tracks across the marsh still exist, preserved in peat beneath the watery landscapes recreated in recent years. What did our prehistoric ancestors make of the bittern’s booming call? What was their word for the bird? We’ll never know, but surely they were equally struck by its eldritch presence. Perhaps those medieval myths and names reach back this far.

Like many of Britain’s fen and marshland birds, the bittern became extinct. It recolonised in the early twentieth century after an absence of 50 years, but numbers remained low and as recently as 1997 there were only 11 booming males. Thanks to hard conservation work, 46 males have been estimated calling on the Avalon Marshes this spring in Somerset alone, the densest population anywhere in the country. Our names and myths recall how elemental bitterns are to this habitat, as much as reed and peat and water. It is joyously encouraging that a bird so intimately rooted in these special places is not lost.

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RSPB Ham Wall reserve, April 2018

Bird in the snow: another way to look at a blackbird

This week brought in the birds to us, made bold in numbers and cheek by the short arctic visitation, just when we were expecting spring to start murmuring from below ground. Snow had come overnight and the first morning filled our room with a brilliancy of light that seemed like snow itself. The world was distilled, snow perfecting light to the very tip of purest white.

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View over Cranbrook towards the Union windmill from our bedroom window first thing on 27th February.

If there is anything that can intensify such whiteness further, it’s the male blackbird that is here each time I come to the window to show our five-week-old daughter the hushed and strange outside. In truth it is one of several nearby, but it’s always a single bird that comes to our balcony. The utter blackness of its plumage is both a sharp presence and absence in the snow. For long periods of time he seems to stare intently at us, snow-light reflected in his black eye.

In the American poet Wallace Stevens’ famous ‘Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird‘, the final image depicts the onset of snow one evening, and a blackbird in a cedar tree. Our blackbird comes next, the morning after, when the snow has fallen thick, and the bird perches in the stuff itself. Another way to look at a blackbird. And snow.

Beneath this monochrome beauty, though, lies a stark reality. What brings the blackbird to us, and its cousins the redwings and fieldfares, is thrush hunger for easy pickings in these suddenly cold days. In the nonhuman world, snow means tough living, and very possibly, death.

It’s different for most of us, of course, particularly here in southern Britain where heavy snow fall is a scarce and magnificent event, short-lived and affording quick pleasures whilst it lasts. There’s a carnival aspect to snow days—approved topsy-turvy misrule in a fleeting interlude between usual routines. I suspect this accounts for much of the fascination and excitement that goes with snow in a country where by and large there is none. Unless we are travelling, or obliged to work whatever the conditions, most of us thrill to the fact that just sometimes our lives are ‘gloriously disrupted’, as a friend recently put it.

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Fields beyond Cranbrook.

The delights and obstacles of niveous mayhem remind us that the natural world can and does call the shots, even if most of our lives are spent smugly believing otherwise. The remarkable trick of snow, in fact, is even more absolute. It performs a dissolution, smothering time and place so that the world appears ageless, our traces erased. In the fields beyond our town where the expanse of snow goes out to sky, broken only by blackbird tree-lines, the whiteness is everything and nothing.

The plastic plight of seabirds

In recent years I’ve done a fair bit of thinking and writing about seabirds in early English culture (see here and here). I’d say, in fact, I can talk at quite some length about seabirds in Anglo-Saxon poetry, and I’m currently researching the topic further for a chapter in a new book. My research and writing on the subject, though, gives me pause for thought, because despite similar imaginative responses to these remarkable creatures across the centuries, my experiences with seabirds in my own time are disturbingly and drastically different in ways that profoundly and irrevocably affect their cultural relevance to us in the twenty first century, and would have been unimaginably alien to our medieval ancestors. The picture of environmental destruction that afflicts seabirds is uniquely modern: we cannot think about seabirds without confronting how they are tied up, quite literally, with our detritus. The poet who depicts a gannet in the Old English Seafarer as a far-travelling companion on the winter waves could not have conceived of the strangulated individual in the harrowing image above.

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The contents of a decayed albatross carcass. Image: Algalita.org.

In particular, of course, I’m talking about plastic, and the gargantuan quantities of enduring waste it produces. It’s such an unavoidable aspect of daily life that we barely give the substance a second thought, and we don’t need to. We can legitimately throw away as much of the stuff as we want, confident that it will be disposed of somewhere else, by someone we don’t know or care about. That’s the situation the ‘progress’ of convenient, comfortable living has led to; we aren’t required to care. To be sure, most of us know we should care, and most of us use local schemes to recycle as best we can, or avoid using plastic bags when we go shopping. What most of us could never have guessed is just how pervasive plastic and its disastrous effects are when we think we’ve safely discarded it. Without even considering the devastating effects on all the other creatures that inhabit the world’s oceans, it is estimated now that 90% of the world’s seabirds have consumed plastic (here and here).

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Plastic debris drifts from the ocean into this bay in the Philippines. Image: Erik de Castro.

In response to all this, and the sickening feeling we have about the sheer quantities that go into landfill every year in countries around the world (the stats are staggering: in Australia alone just toothbrushes produce 1000 tonnes of landfill a year!), my wife and I decided to go plastic and packaging free in 2018. We want to implement habits and routines that will slowly become a way of life. We know the realities—avoiding plastic entirely is pretty much impossible unless you want to completely cut yourself loose from modernity. We’ve done our research though, and have embarked on a scheme to dramatically cut down what we throw into landfill at the end of this year. (Later on in 2018 I’ll post again on this topic to let you know what we’ve done and how it’s going.)

In fact, we’ve apparently taken up this challenge at the right time: Blue Planet II has apparently really caught the public attention on issues of plastic; China has stirred things up by rejecting imported plastic from the UK from this year; and only days ago Theresa May made the headlines by discussing ambitions to force the big UK supermarkets to rethink packaging. Here’s hoping.

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A UK landfill site. Ironically, these mounds of waste have become beneficial for some seabirds, gulls, who have adapted to become urban dwellers. Image from edie.

I’m excited by our environmental ambitions for this year: they feel real and filled with genuine potential. But taking on this more explicit form of environmental action has prompted me to think about the importance of those other less obvious, less immediate examples of individual responsibility. Writing about the natural world is the most relevant example to me, and it sometimes seems arcane, detached and irrelevant. What difference does it actually make? In some slight yet important way, though, the thinking and caring that happens when people write about the natural world does matter. In my case, understanding how seabirds were experienced and represented in the earliest English writings is part of the narrative that leads to our engagement with these creatures now, and their plights, even if only because we might be prompted to a keener sense of loss and responsibility. It is all part of the passion and urgency we share to influence the way people think about, encounter and treat the natural world. We do this, always, with the hope of making just a little, positive difference.

Call of the curlew: birds and the spirit of place

In these last days before Christmas my wife and I have escaped to our favourite place out here on the Essex marshes. On our first morning, the frost and brightness we’d hoped would last was suddenly replaced by mild Atlantic temperatures and thick, seeping mist. Still, this weather has its own spectral winter beauty. Like snow, mist can have the effect of flattening out time and place, as though to make indistinguishable everything that separates us from past and future. Marsh goes out into one empty and endless beyond. In the far distance I can make out the looming bulk of Bradwell power station, but even this is strange and ancient today, a stone-dark monolith suspended in white.

The mist doubles everything we love about these places—the deep sense of past centuries brought close in a landscape that is still wild and uninhabited. In these secretive, oozing creeks are the birds. Redshanks are always sudden alarm, piping urgently and flashing trailing white wings when they burst upwards at the last second. Curlews sound somewhere between woe and surprise, wail and sigh, wind down chimneys and an old kettle’s boiling scale. Like everything here, particularly on a day like today, the birds feel distant and elusive.

It is the waders that seem most distinctly of the marsh to me, as though their eerie calls evolved quite purposely to sound the evocative spirit of estuarine substance. We’ll never fully know what earlier people made of birds’ presences, but what evidence does exist suggests that they intimately associated birds and place as much as we do. Old English bird names emphasis hearing birds in general, but birds that appear in Anglo-Saxon place names and charters tell us that birds were not only noticed, but often featured as integral markers of place.

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The Anglo-Saxons certainly knew this place, the sealt-mersc. They managed and farmed it, and made it powerfully symbolic in their poetry. The land has come and gone here on the Essex coast, reclaimed and uncovered by the waves over the centuries, but the saltmarsh has always been here in some form, and for marsh-dwellers, birds were a part of these habitats. Medieval wetlands were inhabited by a much greater variety and numbers of birds than today, and these are recorded in place names that last to this day. The snipe, for instance, a very characteristic bird of fen and bog, is noted in Snitterfield (Snitefeld, 1086), and in a charter entry for Berkshire there is a snitan ige ‘snipe’s island’. Snipe are skulking birds, and it was probably their sounds that attracted attention as much as anything—another Old English term for the bird was hæferblæte ‘goat-bleater’, a marvellous description of the vibrating, eerie noise made by male snipe in their breeding flight as the wind rushes through their tail feathers.

One of the best known Old English poems implies that sea and coastal birds were clearly familiar enough residents of place to evoke a profoundly atmospheric maritime scene. It is, moreover, the birds’ calls that are highlighted in The Seafarer:

Sometimes I took the swan’s song for my game, the gannet’s sound and
curlew’s cry for men’s laughter, the gull’s singing for the mead-drink. There
storms beat stone cliffs, there the tern answered them, icy-feathered; very
often the eagle yelled, dewy-feathered. (The Seafarer, 19b-26)

This littoral environment is characterised and animated by birds. Perhaps most telling of how noticeably and vividly birds have always registered in people’s experiences of the marsh and coast, is the Old English name of an island south of here, past the Blackwater’s mouth, over the bulge of the Dengie peninsula, round to the River Crouch and across to Foulness Island—Fugel Næss ‘Bird Headland’. The place is still an island today—only reachable by a treacherous, ancient path across the sands until the 1920s—its north-east point leading out sharply into sea. The birds remembered in the name must certainly have been the flocks of breeding and migrating waders and geese that still frequent the place today in internationally important numbers.

Tonight is the year’s longest night. The mist is down and I walk out onto the sea wall from our cottage. There is no human sound I can make out at all, but even at this late hour wigeon and teal are whistling in the hidden creeks and redshanks still call out panic. The cloaked mystery of the marsh is at its most potently intense now. A curlew’s liquid trill comes to me down the watery channels through double mist and darkness. Little wonder birds of this place, like birds of the night, caused folk to imagine their eldritch notes as something bewitching—the luring temptations of malevolent sprites.

Storm Ophelia – inauspicious weathers

Last week, only a month after the hurricanes that devastated parts of North America, Storm Ophelia whirled up from the Azores to cause devastation in western Ireland, reaching wind speeds of 119 mph in County Cork—the most severe eastern Atlantic hurricane on record, and the sixth major hurricane in the Atlantic hurricane season, exactly thirty years after the now mythical Great Storm of 1987. At the end of the same week, Storm Brian lashed across most of England, bringing high winds and huge waves along southern coasts.

Ophelia over Ireland. Image: Wikipedia Commons.

For those of us lucky enough to be safe from the life-threatening effects of Ophelia, our experiences were more surreal and astonishing. Monday 16th October began calm, bright and just a little cool, exactly as expected for this time of year in southern Britain. I was teaching all day and paid little attention to the outside world until the afternoon was upon us. Quite suddenly temperatures became uncomfortably warm. My students fidgeted and complained—we flung windows wide and wedged the door open to encourage a draft. Down here in Kent, in fact, temperatures reached 23.5C that afternoon, the highest UK temperature in the warmest October on record. For us, that’s a balmy spring day, and wouldn’t feel out of place or dissatisfying in summer, even.

It wasn’t the heat that was most mesmerising though. It was the extraordinary colour of the sky—a lurid, apocalyptic orange that suggested some strange, cosmic conflagration. Dust from the Sahara carried on the winds and debris from huge wildfires in Spain and Portugal scattered the blue light wavelengths, and incarnadined the whole sky. The gloaming brought a disorientating haze across everything, that seemed to equally expand and foreshorten distances and turned the sun to pink copper, viewed through a supernatural element. The following day was still nebulous. It felt like we were inside it—a freakish weather happening.

Orange skies over London. Image: Peter Macdiarmid, The Daily Mail.

My shameless borrowing from Shakespeare in the previous paragraph is not accidental—I wanted to recall Mabeth’s famous line about ‘turning the green one [sea] red’ because I was teaching Macbeth at the time to my GCSE students. Act Two, scene four, in fact. The one where the Old Man speaks of ‘Hours dreadful and things strange’. Macbeth’s atrocities are mirrored in the great macrocosm, the cause of ‘the day’s shame’ which casts ‘Darkness’ over the ‘face of the earth’, as though ‘dark night strangles the travelling lamp’. ‘Duncan’s horses … turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out’.

Literature is full of prognostications from strange or dramatic weathers. It’s easy to see how this comes about, of course, particularly if you happen to be reading an example at the very moment these events occur! Coincidences can seem too unlikely, and truly marvellous or violent weather is so great and so unavoidably noticeable  that it can make one feel there must surely be omniscient, metaphysical forces at work. The day after Ophelia made its tracks across Western Britain, a cartoonist for The Times was clearly struck by weather events’ powerful and persuasive capacities to makes us feel that there must be some correlation with current human affairs. I’m quite sure that the sketch below was humorously received by many British readers.

Image: The Times, 17.10.17. Morten Morland.

Unsurprisingly given the religious leanings of the pre-modern age, medieval writings include lots of meteorological predictions. The events of last week sent me back to some of these texts to seek out responses to weird or remarkable weathers up to and over 1000 years ago. In particular, I thought of The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles on that Monday (historical annals compiled by monks in various locations in the late Anglo-Saxon age). The accounts we find in these texts are not fictional, allegorical representations of weather, but genuine responses to real weather occurrences, observed and recorded as significant yearly events. I’ll leave off here, with just few entries for readers to enjoy.

774. And men saw a red sign of Christ in the heavens after the sun’s setting. (This was possibly some sort of aurora borealis or supernova event.)

793. Here terrible portents came about over the land of Northumbria, and miserably frightened the people: these were immense flashes of lightning,and fiery dragons were seen flying in the air. A great famine immediately followed these signs; and a little after that in the same year on 8 January the raiding of heathen men miserably devastated God’s church in Lindisfarne island by looting and slaughter. 

806. Here the moon grew dark on 1 September. And Eardwulf, king of Northumbria, was driven from his kingdom, and Eanberht, bishop of Hexham, passed away.

1122. And after that, the Tuesday after Palm Sunday, there was a very great wind on that day, 22 March; after that many signs came far and wide in England … Afterwards, on the day of 8 September, that was on the Feast of Saint Mary, there occurred a great wind from 9 a.m. in the morning of the day until dark night.

(All entries here are from the Peterborough manuscript).

Life in the in between: a sparrowhawk’s existence

Two weeks ago on a humdrum Monday a sparrowhawk came to our three-storey balcony, blowing our little space wide open in a burst of flight and feathers.

That’s how it is with sparrowhawks. There’s no preamble to the strike. Not the slowly-does-it buoyancy of a harrier’s quarter, nor the panic warning that accompanies a peregrine’s hunt over winter marshes. Most of my sparrowhawk sightings are barely sightings at all—an intimation of something bullet-brained, a sign of wing and greyness that registers just enough to count. They are glimpsed in their sheering horizontal strafes, sensed at the tilting up-and-over moment into hedgerow ambush. I have sometimes seen females soaring high in an eagle-fashion, and I’ve heard—seen photos—of individuals that do materialise for whole periods of time, all the hawk components suddenly but undeniably singular, complete, right there in plain sight of the kitchen sink. The most solid example I’d had till now was the filamentous ghost of wings from a momentary window zonk—the delicate traces of a botched hunt in a suburban garden. Sparrowhawk dust.

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A young female, identified by her size and the juvenile brown tips to her feathers.

As with all predators, most raptors’ hunting attempts end in failure. Not this one. A young female perfecting her game. She is big and broad, built for open-sky spaces, unlike the males who haunt the intimacies of summer full-leaved woodlands. Our creaking reactions have already missed the arrival, whole seconds too clunky to match her. We must surmise the action: a chance sighting and too good to miss, shift and accelerate towards the next second. She lives now at the cusp, slicing the in between of everything in the strike down to seize and overtake the present, straddling the instant like the poor-bastard dove she’s shafted from the iron railing. On the balcony floor she’s astride her prey as if in some strange copulation, plucking furiously, then tearing at the good meat.

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The space around was snow-silent in these minutes after the kill—a penumbra of small bird fear and human awe. We watched from just two feet away, edging closer on our stomachs right up to the window sill, making the most of this unpredicted hawk proximity. She saw us; of course she did—her whole being spins on those huge yellow eyes—but she was hungry and willing to tolerate us. Even so, we didn’t see her go. We’d turned to whisper, and right then she’d taken off with her carcass undercarriage, leaving a mess of dusky feathers to tell the tale, just in case we’d missed it.

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The remains of a collared dove.

What struck me in the days after was how many people miss out on such wonder, even when it thrusts itself right into our human centres. These chance happenings are so much on the margin for some of us—the countryside at the edges of our obsessive internalised urban lives. I called a friend that Monday, eager to share this remarkable incident on our fire-escape balcony, and knowing he was just minutes away. I couldn’t tempt him. Next time, perhaps. There is always hope that such things will take us by surprise, hurl our attention inwards to the ellipse of a hawk’s world.