AN AFTERNOON TO REMEMBER
An afternoon to remember from a few years back lingers on in my mind; every detail of it is etched into my mind, a gentle breeze rippled along the water at the Old Reservoir, already the chill of Autumn lingered in the air.
At the far end of the lake a dozen mallard took flight, already paired off, ducks and drakes preparing for courtship, below me on a path between two pools a fox emerged from the undergrowth, too busy hunting to see me although we were only yards apart.
The fox looked half starved, you could almost see the bones protruding from his mangy coat and he suddenly seemed to become aware of my presence and sprang into the undergrowth. The day looked promising, there is something magical about an Autumn day, as one poet described it; a long, still Autumn day when birds are flying south. I lingered for a while at the stand of silver birch trees that overlook the glen, the trees were starkly beautiful contrasting sharply with the green of the firs and spruces.
Moving on I reached the track that leads to the Mass rock, from here there is a magnificent view of the Blackwater Valley, off on the horizon I could see Kilmurray House and the old walled graveyard of the Grant family, silhouetted on the skyline was Castlecooke, standing guard over the Araglin Valley. All was peaceful, quiet and serene, but for one little creature death was lurking in the sky above, a flock of goldfinches flew over the trees, easily identifiable by their up and down flight and chattering among themselves.
Suddenly, like a bolt from the blue a sparrow hawk flashed through the trees, scattering the goldfinches in a panic, one bird, instead of seeking the shelter of the trees, sped down a clearing in the wood, he was doomed, and the sparrow hawk was on him like a flash, the little bird’s terrified cries were pitiful. The sparrow hawk swept up behind him, flipped on its back in mid-flight and seized its prey from below, a few feathers drifted silently onto the ground as the hawk sped off with its prey.
A silence descended on the woods, no birds were singing now, it was as though all the wild creatures of the wood were aware that the silent killer of the skies
was still about, and he was. Not far from where I had witnessed this little drama of the wild the hawk was devouring its prey, the sparrow hawk with its speed and deadly killing power
is the fighter jet of the bird world. What I had been witness to was too is an every-day occurrence in the wild, what I remember most about that day was the silence that followed it.