I heard it before I saw it, a bird fight in the little copse of trees at the entrance to the Cove. First, a crow's cawcawcaw, that shrill alarm that rallies the troops. Then a hawk flew through, low and slow, a broken field run, its wings too wide to glide in that cramped space. Crows gathered. The braver ones dove at the hawk's head, came close but veered clear at the last moment. The hawk just waited, hopped from branch to branch, screamed once, for show, it seemed, not too perturbed. A moment after I shot this frame, the hawk flew free, rose high, higher still, buoyed up by an ocean breeze.