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20先得和大家道个歉，这期录制的时候因为设备没架好，背景里噪音比较大，经过尽力抢救最后效果也不是很好，但是……实在没有力气再录一次了……四方作揖！
本期段落之间的鸣声全部来自游隼，请大家收听的时候注意音量。
本期提到了三种猛禽，分别是游隼，红隼和黑翅鸢，它们大概长这样：
这是我在花鸟岛拍到的肚版游隼
依旧是花鸟岛拍到的悬停中的红隼
这是在大理见到的黑翅鸢
03:10 这里嘴瓢了……我其实想说Windhover这个词也是一首名诗的题目，全诗如下。
The Windhover
I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.
07:20 这里提到的是几种在英国和中国都比较常见的鸟类，它们分别长这样：
最近在自留地看到的赤颈鸭
自留地的绿翅鸭
肚子一点都不黑的非繁殖羽黑腹滨鹬
五彩斑斓的黑的凤头麦鸡
18:00 关于游隼俯冲的过程和更多游隼迁徙的信息可以见中科院动物所的这篇推送。非常惊喜的是，科学家们在这篇文章里也引用了贝克的《游隼》www.ioz.cas.cn
稍后提到的海伦·麦克唐纳的两本书是《以鹰之名》H is Hawk 和Falcon.
36:48 这是我读的游隼的选段：
十二月的一天，我在河口附近遇见了我的第一只游隼。那是十年前的事了。太阳从笼罩水面的白雾里透出了一点红光，田野上有白霜闪烁，船只也被封冻，只剩河水轻轻拍打着河岸。我沿着高高的河堤向海边走去。太阳升起后，又钻进了一片灿烂夺目的薄雾之中，硬得噼啪响的白色草地也逐渐变得松软、潮湿。阴影处的霜冻一整日都未化去，但阳光很暖和，无风。我在河堤脚下休息，看着滨鹬在潮汐线上捕食。突然，它们朝上游飞去，同时有数百只小雀鸟从我头顶扑腾而过，在一大片翅膀绝望的扑棱声中仓皇而逃。过了好一会儿我才意识到，有什么大事要发生了，而我不该错过。我爬上河堤，看见斜坡内侧，低矮的山楂树林里挤满了田鸫。它们尖利的鸟喙全都朝向东北，在惊慌中喋喋不休、语无伦次地叫嚷着。我顺着那方向望去，只见一只隼正朝我飞来，然后猛地一个右转，向内陆飞去。它像是只红隼，但体形更大，颜色更黄，有着像子弹头一样的头部和更加修长的羽翼，对飞行也更有热情，好似乐在其中。我一直未见它滑翔，直到它看见一群椋鸟在麦茬地里觅食——带着一股横扫一切的气势，它俯冲直下，没入腾起的椋鸟之中。一分钟后，它从我头顶疾速掠过，一口气冲入了阳光弥漫的薄雾。它飞得比刚才更高了，像一枚掷出的飞镖，掠过天空，直冲向前；刀锋般刚锐的翅膀向后收拢、轻弹，好似一只沙锥。这便是我的第一只游隼。自那以后，我虽又见过许多，但没有一只能超越它的速度，它热烈如火焰的生命力。整整十年，我将我所有的冬日都用于寻找这漂泊不定的光芒，寻找游隼掠过天空时生命迸发出的霎时热情。整整十年，我永远在抬头观望，等待那击破云层的铁锚、那穿破长空的弓弩再次出现。对于鹰，我的双眼竟也贪得无厌起来。这双眼睛迷恋上了它们，带着一种一见如故的狂喜，就像鹰的眼睛在世间游荡，终于发现诱人的食物——鸥或鸽子时——瞳孔会迅速扩张一样。 选自《游隼》北京日报出版社，2017版。
英文版是这样的：
I saw my first peregrine on a December day at the estuary ten years ago. The sun reddened out of the white river mist, fields glittered with rime, boats were encrusted with it; only the gently lapping water moved freely and shone. I went along the high river-wall towards the sea. The stiff crackling white grass became limp and wet as the sun rose through a clear sky into dazzling mist. Frost stayed all day in shaded places, the sun was warm, there was no wind.
I rested at the foot of the wall and watched dunlin feeding at the tide-line. Suddenly they flew upstream, and hundreds of finches fluttered overhead, whirling away with a ‘hurr’ of desperate wings. Too slowly it came to me that something was happening which I ought not to miss. I scrambled up, and saw that the stunted hawthorns on the inland slope of the wall were full of fieldfares. Their sharp bills pointed to the north-east, and they clacked and spluttered in alarm. I followed their point, and saw a falcon flying towards me. It veered to the right, and passed inland. It was like a kestrel, but bigger and yellower, with a more bullet-shaped head, longer wings, and greater zest and buoyancy of flight. It did not glide till it saw starlings feeding in stubble, then it swept down and was hidden among them as they rose. A minute later it rushed overhead and was gone in a breath into the sunlit mist. It was flying much higher than before, flinging and darting forwards, with its sharp wings angled back and flicking like a snipe’s.
This was my first peregrine. I have seen many since then, but none has excelled it for speed and fire of spirit. For ten years I spent all my winters searching for that restless brilliance, for the sudden passion and violence that peregrines flush from the sky. For ten years I have been looking upward for that cloud-biting anchor shape, that crossbow flinging through the air. The eye becomes insatiable for hawks. It clicks towards them with ecstatic fury, just as the hawk’s eye swings and dilates to the luring food-shapes of gull and pigeons.
