from his rucksack and unfolding two of the official forms that accompany captive-bred rare birds
throughout their lives. 'Don’t want you going home with the wrong bird.'
, We noted the numbers. We stared down at the boxes, at their parcel-tape handles, their doors of
thin plywood and hinges of carefully tied string. Then he knelt on the concrete, untied a hinge on
the smaller box and squinted into its dark interior. A sudden thump of feathered shoulders and the
box shook as if someone had punched it, hard, from within. ‘She’s got her hood off,’ he said, and
frowned. That light, leather hood was to keep the hawk from fearful sights. Like us.