I’d been so blind, so miserable, I’d not seen my hawk was miserable too.
—Helen Macdonald, H is for Hawk
Eschewing the fist, he stooped onto my shoulder, his talons through my tee shirt entering my skin my nerve not just to right his landing but to bind. Instinct tried to shake him off as I fell backward into the soft savannah. He held his ground so I wangled a rabbit’s foot from my pocket into the glove. He leaped to eat and I secured his jesses to my hand. He bated. I wanted love but had only manned him, he told me now, hacked him of spirit as he had cut into my bloody shoulder.
It had been up to me whether or not he would fly so what will happen now as I erase the creance and the leash?
A native New Yorker, James Penha has lived for the past two decades in Indonesia.