It was before 8.00 a.m. as I walked two weeks ago along the edge of the campus at the University of Colorado, where I was on my way to a meeting. I sipped tea as I walked. The morning sun, warm against the cool day, felt good on my face. The sun heightened my senses. The sun heightened the freshness of the morning. Birds chattered. A mix of robins and sparrows foraged at the edge of a line of shrubs. Then a charge hit, everything changed, and birds flew out like debitage from a hard struck stone. The charge was gray, a streak from the sky, a raptor that pulled back and in its wings in the moment before it hit. It hit talons first, grabbing tight a robin. Feathers flew. Screams and warning calls. Sound and feathers followed the spray of escaping birds. The robin—the held robin, the caught robin, the prey robin—twisted. One of the robin’s wings extended and fluttered. The gray raptor stared at me. I stood ten feet from the bird and its prey. I was as caught in the stare as the robin was in talons. The sharp gaze did not lift. The eyes bore at me down the curved beak that was still and glinting in sun. When the feathers had settled, when the prey robin twisted less, the raptor flew—its wings bit the air in two quick beats—in a hop over the shrubs—sufficient distance from me—where the raptor landed and held still its talons tight around the robin.