On slow wings the marsh hawk is patrolling possibility–soaring, sliding down almost to ground level, twisting suddenly at something in the marsh hay or dune grass, their autumnal colours snagging his eye where he finds the slightest aberration, any stir that isn’t the wind’s, and abruptly plunges on it.

that isn’t the wind’s, and abruptly plunges on it.   Then,

if he’s lucky–and that scuttling minutiae of skin and innards, its hot pulse hammering, isn’t–he will settle there and take in what’s happened: severing the head first, then ripping the bright red strings that keep the blood in check, then eyes, gizzard, heart, and so to the bones, cracking and snapping each one–that moved so swift and silent and sure of itself, only a minute ago, in the sheltering grass.