Finding the Falcon

It was the afternoon of the day before Christmas Eve, and Jess and I had been giddy in the flat all morning.

Not the loud kind of giddy—just the quiet kind that comes from nowhere to be and nowhere to rush. The rain had settled into a cool, steady rhythm, and we spent the morning enjoying each other’s company, the soft gray light, and the rare gift of not needing to do much at all.

We went out a couple of times for short walks before riposo, but when the rain picked up again, we decided to wait out the worst of it inside. By about 2:30, though, that familiar restlessness set in. The kind that tells you it’s time to move—not because you have to, but because you should.

On a whim, we decided to hike up to San Matteo.

It turned out to be a very good decision.

The rain broke just enough to let the sun burn through the clouds, and the sky shifted into that brief, electric clarity that only happens after a storm. It felt like a window—short, fragile, and meant to be used. The kind of light that invites things out of hiding.

When we first stepped out of the flat, we were greeted by a giant golden eagle.

It appeared suddenly, gave a single, unmistakable cry, and disappeared just as fast. I fumbled, swapping from the 50mm to the 200–600, knowing I was already too late. No good frames—just the memory of it cutting through the sky like it owned the place.

That’s okay. I’m sure we’ll see it again.

As we crested the peak at San Matteo, we were met by the usual company—pigeons and doves moving about the ancient stone as they always do. Familiar. Expected.

But this time, Jess and I went a little farther.

We passed behind the old cathedral and followed a narrow path that climbed above San Matteo, lifting us just enough to change our perspective. And that’s when it happened.

He swept over us without warning—fast, deliberate, and unmistakable.

A peregrine falcon.

We had been scanning the ground for wildlife, eyes trained low, hoping for movement among rocks and brush. Instead, our first true predator encounter came from above.

For a moment, everything else fell quiet. The falcon banked through the open sky, sunlight catching the underside of its wings as a pair of ravens harassed it from a distance—bold, noisy, and ultimately irrelevant.

And then it was gone.

Just like that.

It felt fitting somehow. After days of watching, waiting, and walking slowly through this place, the first real wildlife encounter wasn’t something we tracked down. It was something that chose its own moment—and reminded us to look up.