Sublime

an ache in my heart I can’t place.

‘Excuse me? Is that a goshawk?’ He’s in his forties, with glasses. A thickset, cheerful man holding a wriggling toddler. ‘Hang on, Tom,’ he says. ‘We’re going to get an ice-cream. I just want to talk to this lady for a second.’ I grin. I know how it feels to hold onto a creature who wants to be somewhere else. And then my heart falters, just a litt

Their existence gives the lie to the thought that the wild is always something untouched by human hearts and hands. The wild can be human work.

Their existence gives the lie to the thought that the wild is always something untouched by human hearts and hands. The wild can be human work.

I want to be gentle. I am being gentle, but my gentleness is a veneer on raging despair.

Looking for goshawks is like looking for grace: it comes, but not often, and you don’t get to say when or how.

The ground has a deep crust of snow. Everything is poised as if it might shake itself.