by Inka Piegsa-Quischotte
Feet firmly planted on the ground, left elbow out, forearm straight, hand and wrist covered with a thick leather glove, I looked apprehensively at the master falconer standing by my side. He had just sent a magnificent Harris's hawk into the air, soaring into the sky, then swooping down towards me. “He won’t attack me, will he?” I asked. “Not unless he mistakes you for a rabbit,” the instructor deadpanned, “and there is no chance of that”, he grinned. He
