Ripped by a Hawk…

Back to the goshawk.

There was something beautiful about that bird of prey, even as it was ripping the still fluttering woodpigeon to pieces. Even that bit was edifying though I would prefer that nobody heard me say that. It wasn’t the gore of the scene that pulled me in but the purity of the event which was as scary as hell and not a little bit repulsive. Somehow though, the goshawk and the woodpigeon seemed to be acting out something for the world to take notice of. Imagine if the woodpigeon was a teenager like me, wandering through its normal day, flitting from branch to branch whilst making those warm cooing noises that they make. Imagine it was me with my baseball cap pulled down so that it was difficult to see my eyes. One moment I would be lost in my own importance and the nonchalance of just…