In spring I sign into a webcam trained on a tower every day. Twice a day. More. Joining thousands of web-watchers curtain-twitching over eagles, ospreys, and every kind of owl. You can spend hours scrolling a steady diet of pigeon, sand-eel, and things that went squeak. But I like the peregrine falcon. Whether on the campanile of the University of Southern California, a disinclined cliff-face, or the gravel-lined tray on a church tower in Tewkesbury, I am rooting for their hook-hunt certainties as they hurtle through the sky.
I don’t tell my partner that’s why we’re here. The house is guarded by a jump-jet fleet of dragonflies and squadrons of red admirals, thwarting our progress on disciplined wing.