watching a trained hawk

Swift “dive from an oak”
brutal sounds of breaking on the ground
“a dead bird placed reverently in a hawking bag…
deep in the muddled darkness
six copper pheasant feathers glowed
in a cradle of blackthorns”
a young girl “picked them free, one by one,”
tucked them inside her pocket,
one inside her fist, moments of being held tight.

Walking home she felt a change
years later she would understand why.

note: the quoted words or lines are from H is for Hawk by Helen MacDonald, a book I just started reading.

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