Marsh harriers possess a human exclusion zone, one that extends for about 100 yards in all directions. Other birds of prey are more confiding: a buzzard on a roadside fencepost, a kestrel above a motorway verge, a sparrowhawk flying flat-out six inches above the path you’re walking on.

But a marsh harrier prefers distance: perching on something low a quarter-mile off, more often seen making that shallow-vee flight silhouette, examining the marsh below with immense concentration from a height of 20 feet, and always a good 100 yards from the human observer.

The hut where I work overlooks a bit of Norfolk marsh, a perpetual and constantly-sought distraction. I had barely sat down, the computer still making coffee-grinder noises, when I turned to the window – and there was a harrier barely ten yards away and still approaching, black against the sky so I could see no markings, but probably female from the greater size of her, and as she got within a few feet she flicked a switch to rise, sharply but still elegantly, before making a turn hard-left and moving on, wings still held in that high dihedral, and of course, not even a hint of a flap.

The achieve of, the mastery of the thing! At the same time, less elevated words came into my mind. Propinquity means closeness, often physical proximity. The line at the top of this blog is from Ian Fleming’s 1956 novel Diamonds Are Forever; Felix Leiter is encouraging James Bond and Tiffany Case to quarrel more nicely.

The phrase was later associated with the American diplomat George Bell, under-secretary of state under JFK and LBJ. In his interpretation, it meant that the closer you were to the president, the more powerful you were yourself.

In this moment of perfect propinquity with the harrier, the power and the fragility of the bird — of all nature – were perfectly aligned. Well, that’s propinquity for you.