It was no more than a small fluffy bundle on the floor of the barn, a little way from the box up in the rafters above. But picking it up and turning the light body over, I had to extract a ferocious talon which kept catching on my jacket. Even after death, the killing kit of this ancient predator retained power. The owlet was newly fledged – wings feathered, though not yet at full length, tail short and stumpy and white down still present all over. However, the sharp hooked beak, huge black eye and grasping feet all seemed ready to fulfil their functions. Up close to this owl, I remembered an encounter with an adult bird high up on a beam. Having walked into the dark barn, my eyes needed a moment to adjust. Looking down on me, a pale facial disc was slowly turning like a spotlight, apparently taking everything in. I felt caught, even trapped, although it was only a bird assessing me. In the owl's eye I may not have been a small rodent, but the riveting stare struck deep: