Moths make dusty circles about the lamps. Night air moves in the spaces between the trees. Everything seems hot and clean and dangerous and my senses are screwed to their utmost, as if someone had told me the park was full of hungry lions. Stepping over the low railings into the park I head for the thick black avenue of limes and the lamplit leaves beneath. It feels like an unmooring, as if I were an airship ascending on its maiden flight into darkness. Somewhere in my mind ropes uncoil and fall. Leaving the house that evening is frightening. Keys in pocket, hawk on fist, and off we go. She is the author of Falcon, a cultural history of falcons, and three collections of poetry. She also worked as a Research Fellow at Jesus College, Cambridge. Macdonald is a writer, poet, illustrator, historian, and naturalist, and an affiliated research scholar at the Department of History and Philosophy of Science at the University of Cambridge, where she teaches undergraduate and graduate courses. The following is from Helen Macdonald’s memoir, H is for Hawk.
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