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I am in my kitchen cooking and listening to a chilling sound – the thin, piercing cry of a red-tailed hawk.  We are used to crows here in the city, their raucous caws and ugly appearance are something we don’t really notice anymore, like the wail of sirens, the thump, thump of the bass from passing car radios or the hum of traffic on Route 3. There is even the occasional loud thrumming that is harder to ignore, that of another bird-of-prey, momentarily drowning all other city sounds– helicopters flying low and heading who knows where. But the scream of a hawk seems to run down your spine like ice water. There are three of these creatures (buteo jamaicensis - members of the Raptor category of birds) living near my house in the Highlands; when they float by we can sometimes see their reddish tail markings. It brings a glimpse of desert brush and brown hills across my typical view of green lawns, lilac bushes and neatly painted white houses.  It makes one wonder where the cat has got to.