A shocking wave of violence swept over our neighbourhood today. Fitzwilliam Square was quiet this afternoon, and I sat enjoying the sun on a bench overlooking the lawn. The air filled with an unfamiliar noise and something savage emerged from the trees behind me. A ball of ferocious activity flew overhead and landed in the center of the square.
The decisive moment of the fight occurred before the participants hit the ground. The fracas on the grass was brief. 
The predator won easily, despite its modest size. But its struggle was hardly over. As long as its prey lay in the open, it could not rest. It could not savor the bold kill in plain sight.
The predator’s ambitions led to an impressive melee but an ignominious result. Pulling and tugging, the bird could not carry the fat pigeon into the air. And it would not stoop to dragging the body away. So it stood, glaring at the unjust world that would place a noble bird in such a humiliating position.
I saw it. I believe that I am the only witness. I scared the killer as I left the square, and I’m not sure if I should regret adding further disgrace to its predicament.