tiersein:

Another hinge untied. Concentration. Infinite caution. Daylight irrigating the box. Scratching talons, another thump. And another. Thump. The air turned syrupy, slow, flecked with dust. The last few seconds before a battle.

And with the last bow pulled free, he reached inside, and amidst a whirring, chaotic clatter of wings and feet and talons and a high-pitched twittering and it’s all happening at once, the man pulls an enormous, enormous hawk out of the box and in a strange coincidence of world and deed a great flood of sunlight drenches us and everything is brilliance and fury. 

The hawk’s wings, barred and beating, the sharp fingers of her dark-tipped primaries cutting the air, her feathers raised like the scattered quills of a fretful porcupine. Two enormous eyes. My heart jumps sideways. She is a conjuring trick. A reptile. A fallen angel. A griffon from the pages of an illuminated bestiary. Something bright and distant, like gold falling through water. A broken marionette of wings, legs and light-splashed feathers. 

– H is for Hawk, by Helen Macdonald, meeting her goshawk

poesdameronx:

[x]

lacigreen:

fully prepared to fight for sex ed till i keel over dead

dduane:

dduane:

(With a tip of the hat to thestudentofcoffee, who reminded me of the passage)

It’d be nice if this hit 100,000 notes before the Discworld convention in August, as I don’t think Terry’s seen it yet, and I’d like to show it to him then. Just saying…