Kestrel 🗞️ Slow News Day #72

Hey,

Cape Cornwall, June 2022

I see you, kestrel. Slick, slight. A comma in the raging sky, hovering at the pinch of the cove. Cliff at your back, ocean ahead.

What do you see out there? What could ever cause you — all wonder and magic and flight — to stop and stare for this long? I imagine you’re having fun. The pressure of the wind, the delicate twitch of your tail or wings to rebalance when a fresh gust challenges. I see you looking, looking.

Withens Clough, October 2023

I see you, kestrel. Dark, watchful. You perch on a telephone pole and flap calmly away when our footsteps come too close.

From pole to pole, down the valley line, you swoop. Close but distant, you hunch into yourself against the channeled air and cast a beady eye across the bronze-scratched fields. I see you looking, looking.

A road in North Helford, November 2023

“Kestrel!”

“Wha— where?”

“Gone,” she says. “Through the trees there.”

I miss you, kestrel. And I find myself looking, looking.

Slow down guide

Need a little help moving slower?

Ease your way out of Friday afternoon with this newsletter, a nice cup of something, and a little background music. Steal my setup if you aren't sure where to start.

After I press send, I’m saving the coffee for a few days’ time. I think one of the side effects of restarting my Sertraline prescription has been that caffeine is getting me quite jittery and anxious. For this week, at least, I’ll raise you a mug of peppermint tea and a calmer mind.

As that peppermint tea goes down nicely, The A’s Swing and Turn Jubilee should follow suit. Two female vocalists on clear-as-crystal mics, the quietest plucking of guitar strings, and a pillow-soft drumbeat. It’s a warm blanket by a frosty window. It’s tendrils of steam from the mug in the cold, bright light. It’s a gentle promise on the dawn of December.

Take it easy,