February 1, 2021
Bitter winter day. Dowland is right for the melancholy twilight.
When I cook and there’s gristle or fat to be gotten rid of, I throw it out the kitchen door onto the drive for the crows. It seldom takes them long to find it, even if they were not in evidence when I opened the door. Today I had some fat and a marrowy bone from a lamb steak. I tossed it, and before I turned back to the house, a great, vivid-colored shape, clearly not a crow, swooped down and seized it. My hawk had struck, the image of his white claw seizing the bone frozen inside my eye. It was a wonderful thing.
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