So we're on our morning walk, the dogs and I, and the birds are singing and sun is rising and the treetops are all lit up with that early light when some crows start cawing and cackling and sounding their alarm. And there it is, high on a eucalyptus branch, a hawk.

It's a cold, cold morning and he's waiting for the sun to warm his wings, to warm the air a bit so he can fly and glide and maybe catch a thermal. And there they are, the gathered crows, above and below and all around him, cawing.

But he sits and waits, ignores them utterly. The only move he makes is a head tilt in my direction as the camera shutter snaps. And one by one the crows grow bored, fly away, and the hawk is alone again, waiting to take flight at precisely the right moment.