I walked into the kitchen and chanced to glance out of the west-facing window, not quite idly because I always look to see the ducks in the pond or the day-to-day birds feeding by the seat where I put their food. I hope to see a warbler, garden or willow variety, both sorts are here, gladly count another wren, or idly stand and watch the tits flying in and out of the nesting box, but glancing today, I had a sudden intake of breath because there, standing with strong legs far apart, was a sparrowhawk. It stood amid a sea of feathers surrounding “my” collared dove, which, caught in the hawk’s death grip, was wildly thrashing about, but the amount of loose feathers and the patch of pillar-box red on its lower back was testament to its imminent demise.
I was about to throw open the window and halt this violence when I caught myself. What if I interfere with nature? Play God? My collared dove will probably still die. The sparrowhawk will just eat a different bird. So I stayed my hand, and even when the dying dove turned its head and looked straight at me, I did nothing. I let nature take its unsentimental course. I closed my eyes and willed it to die quickly.
It was not to be. Beautiful was the bird of prey and terrible was the spectacle that followed. For a full ten minutes or more the dove struggled before it died. It took the sparrowhawk another forty minutes before he’s eaten his fill.
I wanted to bury the remains, but again thought it kinder to leave them for the fox would gratefully chew on the bones. The feathers were already being gentled across the garden by the softly blowing breeze, and being collected by smaller birds for their nests. The often savage chain of life continues.
