My Hawk Demands His Glove Every Dawn

Let it be recorded that the heart, though smaller than a fist, has ruined armies more efficiently than winter; my hawk insists on my glove at dawn before he will settle on the perch beside my keep’s narrow window. I leave it on the sill overnight, where the leather grows cold, and every morning he grips it with the solemnity of a little lord receiving tribute. Readers, do not mistake this for training; he has trained me to wake early, and I obey with all the dignity of a besotted keeper.