Middle Son got a picture of the hawk mentioned in the last post:
In a larger context:
Note the bird boxes on poles. Also note the understandable lack of little birds, or, as the hawk might say, ‘fast food’.
While we were there, something stirred in the grass, and the hawk, possibly to show us that he don’t need no stinkin’ hit men, swooped. Like Whitey Bulger or Stalin, he may be in charge, but he’s perfectly willing to do his own killing when something needs killing.
It was majestic and brutal. Whatever the little creature might have been, it seemed to have gotten away – this time. But the point was made.