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It is a place of whispers, corridors and half light, not so dense, nor too open, the fitting place to bury the sparrowhawk.
This is where these birds prey, breathe, strike, belong.
We were heading for the olive mill and decided to check on our return journey to see if the bird was stunned or dead. The life within it had frozen, the beak locked down against the barred softness of its chest.
We took it home and then I found a suitable spot to bury it beneath pine needles and two hefty stones, on the lip of the copse with an uplifting open visa of the valley, near the bee orchids. Through the dreamy rhythm of the dark bark I was heading for the bowl of brightness at the far end, the latest crucible of labour where we are trying to make sense of our relationship with this land.
There was nowhere for us to pull over and, as ever, crazed Catalan drivers were furiously bunched up behind our bumper like railway carriages.Mother’s Garden sits on part of the site of the International Brigades’ training camp before the fateful, final battle against Franco’s Fascists in 1938.It turns out one of the men has just retired from the UN, so I change the subject from the old wars to cravings for new peace. The world is crying out for the UN to show unity of peaceful purpose far and beyond nationalistic interests.But what wonder when you see a hawk, sense the menacing, brutal power from that different world, the one we rarely see and decreasingly sense: the parallel universe inhabited by other Earth creatures who have evolved to perfection, who somehow have the power to shake us humans awake from our ludicrous dream that we know and understand, are wise and supreme.The sparrowhawk had met his end on the bumpy main road that slices through the rolling vineyards and groves a couple of miles from the farm.