Yesterday I was weeding the last of six vegetable beds in our garden when I heard a kerfuffle by the Wendy house. I looked up to see a small garden bird being assassinated by a hawk behind a grassy knoll. The hawk I think was rather put out by my presence and hopped up on to the ridge of the roof of the Wendy house. It looked at me. I looked at it. It looked back at me. Neither of us moved. The other bird lay injured and panting on the ground. I reached in my pocket to grab my phone. The hawk flew off. No picture. I wondered what to do with the garden bird. I picked it up and it lay panting in my gloved hand. And then it stopped, and I realised that the life had gone from it. I put it back behind the grassy knoll, doubting whether the hawk would be back to claim its meal. Above me three red kites circled in the high distance. The ravens restlessly darted through the low skies. The robins, normally so brazen chasing the worms of the freshly tilled soil, hid. The humbled gardener brushed the soil off his fork and went inside for a cup of tea.