"Goshawk." Dave utters the name quietly -he doesn't have to speak loudly here. The forest is cathedral-quiet, the silence disturbed only by a breeze in the canopy 25m or more above us. We listen. I think subconsciously we're straining for the bird. Afaint hope, for the goshawk gives very little away. Why should it? It sees and hears like a demigod, and moves like an apparition. It may not even be here, except in our heads. In our heads it is vivid. "Goshawk?" I reply. Dave and I crouch like detectives beside a scattering of feathers at the base of a conifer. They are fresh and still buoyant - alive, almost - and strewn over a knoll of sphagnum moss, which is itself feathery, but also moist and spongy to the touch. A comfortable deathbed.
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