The Hunt

 

As the days darken, the congregation of crows downtown grows, but the bridgehead flat lot is lined with dozens of rats fed from the camps under and around the off-ramp and on-ramps of the bridge. A hawk is feeding on one behind my prowler. His falconer, paid to harass the crows, asks me not move, but his hawk will have none of him. It sees the rats. The crows can wait.  For ten minutes, the bird flies from ramp to ramp, perched on the rail, lying in wait, ignoring the falconer's attempt to call it back and continue the crow hunt.