Grapple

Today, I put the head of a day-old cockerel on top of a glove, held out my fist to a goshawk standing on another fist, and whistled.

Sudden, startlingly massive view of cream-and-chocolate barring, arched triangles of vintage television. Curious split-second of being in cross-hairs arced from nostrils. Then pow, like shaking hands with a grappling hook.

A delicate talon pronged through chick-eyeball. Thoughtful, fastidious consumption of same. Beak clicks, so close to lip-smacking you swear she has a pair. Something tempting offered on the other side of the room. Pow! Gone, like recoil or missing a step at the bottom of the stairs.

Here's what this was: cool.

Here's what you don't want to do: anything else, ever again.