THE RED HAWK 



The Poetry of Flight 



When the breeze freshens, the glorious red hawk 

 will point its quarter, will veer with it true as any 

 vane. We may see him glide down wind over field 

 and heath, making all the blackbirds, at their feast 

 of hips and haws, chink and chatter, the lark and 

 partridge crouch for life. But, moving so with the 

 wind, suddenly he will stop and swing about a 

 turn accomplished with utter ease and in a space 

 seemingly not larger than himself and then, head 

 pointed straight into the wind, hover for a quarter 

 or half a minute over a spot every foot, perhaps inch, 

 of which he sweeps with a terrible eye. 



The hover, the stillest part of it, reminds one 

 of some triumphant balancing feat, a miracle of 

 accuracy, a dancer at a giddy height poised on the 

 rope with arms outspread ; and indeed perfect 

 balance is no mean part of the aerial equipment of 

 a bird. Nature, in the making of her winged 

 masterpiece, set the centre of gravity in the right 

 place to the shaving of a fraction of an inch. 



Yet balance is but one side of this wonder. 

 How does he keep afloat, near to absolute stillness, 

 by such small play of the wing ? His strokes are 

 often so slight during the hang or hover, they look 

 far more like balancing than upholding movements. 

 It is not surprising that the wind, blowing hard and 

 straight at the hawk, fails to shift him ; for he is 

 built to offer the least resistance to the wind, 

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