I hurry out to the mews. It’s still late afternoon, plenty of light left. I think we deserve one last flight together.

How could this week have started so well and then gone so wrong? The perfect fall breeze, blue sky, and crisp air from yesterday linger today. But everything has changed.

I’m losing Stark.

Of all the raptors I’ve known, this one bird has gotten under my skin. Literally—the bandage on my arm is a reminder of how much. I open the door.

The mews is a long building. Plywood divides it into smaller sections, and plastic-coated wire stretches across the top of each enclosure. A corridor runs down the length.

In the first few sections we keep the hawks, then the falcons, and then the eagles. The owls are in a separate mews behind this one. Most of the crew, including Stark, is outside in the weathering yard. It’s an enclosed area where the birds can sun themselves on their blocks and perches.

I make my way past the meat freezer, the scale, and the shelves loaded with hoods, creance lines, bells, jesses, and other falconry gear. I already have my satchel over my shoulder, and I stuff a tidbit of meat in it along with my lure, my gauntlet, and telemetry equipment so I can track Stark in the air.

Cheeko’s bath pan has a casting in it. The chunky, brown ferruginous hawk glares at me as I change the water. His glare has a calming effect.

“Yeah, I know, you didn’t get to show off yesterday,” I say apologetically.

At the sound of my voice, Bert spreads his enormous eagle wings and bobs his head with impatience.

“What? Someone else getting more attention than you?” I pet Bert’s head as though he’s a dog, which he loves. He peers at me from under his heavy brow ridge.

I love being surrounded by these birds. I love the sounds and the smells and watching them rouse their feathers, which makes them look like big puffy balls before they lay their feathers down smooth again. I even love the air around them, the feel of it. How this wildness sticks to me. It’s soothing and pungent and real, and it helps me think clearly.

But when I go out the back door and my gaze meets Stark’s, a fresh twist of pain grips my heart.

Stark bobs her head as I approach, and I pretend the dance she does on her block is because she’s happy to see me. Even though she’d be able to pick me out in a roomful of people, Stark is slow to show me affection. Maybe that’s why I keep trying so hard with her. I sense she’s had a rough life. I want to prove to her that she can trust me. I keep my eyes averted, but I want to stare in awe at her. Once you fly a bird—see it soar free and wild, then come back—it’s like the bird owns your heart.

In one smooth movement I hold my gloved hand in front of her legs and gather the jesses. She flaps twice as she steps onto my fist and studies me. There is no memory of what happened in her gaze, no remorse or unease. I don’t flinch as I bring my cheek next to hers, breathe in her slightly feral scent, and croon to her. I swear she likes this.

She stands bold and proud, and I admire how her mottled white coloring contrasts with the black trim on her tail and primary feathers. Her breast feathers are coarse under my hand as I run my fingers through them.

I counted the days until her molt was over last month. When her new set of feathers grew in, I could start flying her. That’s when I could finally tell that she was lure trained. And so smart. It made me seethe to think someone just ditched her. Or didn’t care that her transmitter got lost and she couldn’t be tracked. She didn’t know how to feed herself, or how to get home, or how to live in the wild. She nearly died. How would it feel to be abandoned like that? I wanted her to know someone cared. I told her I’d always be there for her.

“So, I found out where you’re from.” I can hardly say it out loud. “But don’t worry, I’m going to go with you so I can meet this guy and see your mews. If it doesn’t seem good enough for you, I’m bringing you right back here, okay?”

Stark studies me and then sneezes, misting me with her bird snot.

“I agree. Let’s do one more together.” I slip a transmitter over her head and check the signal on the frequency. Her hood goes on next. I cinch the braces with my free hand and teeth. This way, she is calm as I carry her to the back field. Still, nervous energy charges through me.

I cup my hand, making a triangle with the side of my thumb and first knuckle. This is the place a falcon sits, right on your fist. Stark’s long talons clench and unclench as she balances on my gauntlet while I walk. I ignore the ache in my arm where she nailed me. My breathing matches her grip. I face into the breeze, and it ruffles through her feathers, making her hop with excitement.

“I know how you feel,” I tell her. With a wind like this, she wants to fly so badly, and a part of me does too.

I stop in our usual place. The prairie sage sways in the open field, and my skin tingles with anticipation. I try to ignore that this is our last flight together. A quiver travels up my chest and ends on my lip. Don’t let her see you unsure. I shake my head and grow a smile.

“Here you go, girl.” I pull off her hood, this time fully focused, and watch her take in her surroundings. She looks around, rouses, and poops—shooting a healthy-looking mute straight down. She glances at me briefly before crouching and leaping off my gauntlet.

When she unfolds her wings to their full size, the sun reflects off her white plumage. It makes my throat tight. She is fit for a king. No wonder gyrfalcons were once flown only by royalty.

My next breath hitches as I watch Stark soar. Falconers aren’t supposed to wonder if my bird will come back, but I can’t help it after what happened yesterday. The scariest part of falconry is being so attached to an animal that can break your heart in a moment. All she has to do is keep flying and disappear.

She pivots back and hurtles past my head, then rises again to begin climbing like stairs in the sky, spiraling up and up, all around me. I start to breathe again.

I let her ride the thermals. When I fly her like this, it’s as if I’m soaring with her. I can almost feel the biting wind in my face. I am free and wild and brave.

Stark swivels her head in my direction. She fixes her steady gaze on me as she soars. I must be patient, but the hope inside me is so big I can hardly stand it. Will she fly higher still, like a falcon is supposed to? Will I be able to swing the lure right, letting her hurtling body get close, but not hitting her with it? There are so many ways to fail, and I want our last flight together to be perfect. I automatically scan the sky above her for eagles. Even more, I don’t want this flight to end in disaster. She could be killed in an instant by a passing owl or eagle.

Once she’s about two hundred feet above me, I pull out the lure with my right hand and begin to swing it in a large arc beside me. The rest of the string I hold loosely in my left. I let out a whistle I’ve perfected.

Stark pivots in the air. I watch her fold up and dive. She drops out of the sky, and my heart plummets with her.

I have to time the arc of the lure with her approach, always swinging the lure away from her. When she gets close, I pull the lure away, slicing the string back with my left hand and swinging in a figure eight. Stark reels up to miss the ground. She rolls and tucks and dives again. I let her get closer, and then I pull the lure around. It’s easy to see how smart she is when we play like this. She watches and calculates and swivels her body as she tucks, spirals, and dives.

She is so clever, trying to guess my moves. She flies straight into the sun; I can hardly see her, which I think she does on purpose. Suddenly she summersaults backward and stoops so fast that I gasp at the impact when she smashes into the lure. It’s such a savage, primal thing that always brings up my blood.

“Good!” My hands shake as I retrieve the lure from the ground, where she’s sitting on it. I’m so proud, though I’m not sure what part I’m proud of. Proud of how pretty she is? Proud that she hit the lure with deadly accuracy? Or that she chooses me over flying free?

When I pluck her from the ground, she’s flapping and jazzed. I can feel her mood through the pressure of her grip on my fist. She grabs the lure back with an outstretched talon and holds it with one foot. I let her break into the meat I’m clutching between my fingers. She eats on my fist.

“I’m going to miss you so much.” My throat aches a little as I watch her. Her sharp eyes glance dispassionately my way, then go back to her kill.