Calm, cold, dull, rain later.
Brief encounter with the Angels of Death
It's a quiet morning, not much happening, cold, so a walk to warm up. Leave the grass and into the trees, stand still, close to a trunk, look up for movement against the light, listen for calls. Nothing for a few minutes, then a Stock Dove's woo woo high in the branches, the chattering of Magpies, subdued Song Thrush notes and contact calls of assorted titmice ("if you don't know what it is, it's a Great Tit"). A Great Spotted Woodpecker drums in the distance, the sound dies away, silence, but then there's tension, the corvids are flying to the top of one of the tallest trees, agitated, noisy, something's about. Suddenly across he comes, slate-grey-backed, quick, direct, silent, arrowing through the trees and up, driving one of the corvids down and away, showing his russet-brown barred breast as returns to bank, climb and perch unseen nearby. A minute or so passes, and as if from nowhere another larger shape appears, passes close-by, broad-winged, long-tailed, powerful, the woodland avian assassin, gliding away through the trees to rise and sit halfway along a branch, the small head turning, a striking light stripe above piercing yellow eyes. They're already a pair: The Sparrowhawks are back. No calls between them, a Magpie forces the female away for a moment, but then she's back, waiting and watching. Again, no movement, but the male reappears to fly past her, accelerating away to climb and perch on an old nest, settling for a few moments before dropping down and disappearing. She watches, silently, then leaves the perch, dropping but then climbing away, perhaps aware of human presence. It's time to for me to leave . . .
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