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There I was, minding my own business and smugly content in my cozy bubble of humanity, when all of a sudden I found myself witness to nature red in tooth and claw. What I saw was a struggle both brutal and commonplace, a struggle that reminded me of how willfully indifferent we humans are to the relentless and merciless drama of nature. I was also startled by a realization that we are, despite our thoughts to the contrary, but minor players in that drama.

I was taking my customary early-morning walk with my dog, quietly mulling over the possibilities of the day while my dog mulled over the possibilities of flushing out a rabbit, when my eye was caught by a commotion as we wandered along the side of a wood. I stopped to observe. An unfortunate wood pigeon was pinned to the ground by a severe-looking sparrowhawk and a riot of feather and flap was underway. The pigeon was struggling furiously to escape while the hawk, cold and focused, simply gripped tightly and waited for yet another pigeon life to ebb away. It was all routine for him, a moment's work.

But pigeons are made of sterner stuff, it seems, because just as I was beginning to think that his battle was over our brave underdog gave one final furious flap and was free. He stood for a moment, bloodied and shaken, then, sensing his chance, took to the air and flew rapidly away both from me as fascinated onlooker and hawk as outraged predator, outraged no doubt by the audacity of his prey. I gave the brave bird a cheer, hoping that his flight to freedom would allow him time to recover, but the hawk was having none of it.

Our cold killing-machine took to the air and set off in pursuit. I watched as he gained impressively, even majestically, on his prey then rammed sickeningly into it, pigeon feathers flying. The pigeon dropped like a stone and landed further along the wood's edge while his killer circled, no doubt gathering himself for the final kill. I walked on, grimly eager to witness the coup de grace.

When I reached the pigeon I winced at the sight before me. Our courageous underdog, still alive, was bloodied and broken. He struggled pathetically to crawl into the undergrowth but his wing was smashed and all he could do was flap hopelessly in a circle. He was mortally wounded, doomed. The hawk perched on a tree branch above, no doubt waiting for the human interloper to leave the scene. I did, but not before saluting the underdog one last time. As I put distance between myself and the bloody drama I looked

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