A fuss from the noisy miners drew my gaze to a tree on the edge of the park next to Balmoral Beach. Too wit, an owl, something red, messy and deceased in its claws, was ignoring the miners' protestations, to stare down the spectators with its one good eye. It seems out of sync with time of day, maybe even with a slightly hunted aspect, but that is the ambiguity of nature's predators. The head, strangely small for such a large birdy, gives the odd idea that the whole thing is a collage of feathers, claws and beak. Fortune favors the observant.