The hawk flies toward the treetops, her wings black and carnelian red. She glides above a yew that took root before Henry VIII ascended the throne, soaring ever higher. For a minute, I wonder whether she’s going to disappear, return to the free, wild life of circling over the moors and catching her own dinner, instead of scarfing up the morsel of raw chicken balanced on my gauntleted hand.

Topics:  henry viii   i   

 

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