“No pain, no death is more terrible to a wild creature that it's fear of man…. A poisoned crow, gaping and hopelessly floundering in the grass, bright yellow foam bubbling from its throat, will dash itself up again and again onto the descending wall of air, if you try to catch it. A rabbit, inflated and foul with myxomatosis,... will feel the vibration of your footsteps and will look at you with bulging, sightless eyes….
“We are at the killers. We stink of death. We carry with us. It sticks to us like frost. We cannot tear it away.”
— J.A. Baker, The Peregrine
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