It serves me right, I’d have to say, hawk-hater that I’ve become. There was the attack on Gus and his family—that awful day back in November when we* lost one of the babies and when Gus (the hero) sustained such debilitating wounds. Then there was my exchange with fellow instagrammer @hayen regarding hawk terrorization of our neighborhoods: small dogs, walk at your own risk.
Yes. Of late, I’ve been giving careful consideration to the circle of life and the role these evil-doers—menacing, predatory, birds of prey—play in it.
Hey babe. Look there on Blu’s branch. There’s a bird I haven’t seen before.
I grabbed my camera, hoping against hope I could get a good enough shot from the distance of the kitchen window to at least identify the species. But another tree blocked the view, so I headed out the side door. I slowly made my way down the hill, practicing my silent Indian-in-the-Woods walk.
That’s the bird I saw over by the dam last week, I thought. Could it be one of Jay’s owls, finally come to visit our side of the lake?
I continued on, and that big bird didn’t move. Click click click went my camera. Creep creep creep went my feet. And suddenly I was right there, so close I could see the curve of his beak.
It was no owl. But what a spectacular animal.
I nearly broke into a run as I headed back to the house, excited to download the shots and find his kind in one of my bird books. How thrilling to have a new addition to our Bickley’s Pond watch.
(You’ve no doubt guessed it by now.)
I’m a bit disappointed by the whole thing, to tell you the truth, this shattering of my illusion that hawks are big and black and brooding. In fact, I may well stay here, parked square in the middle of a dichotomy my mind can’t reconcile.
I think this bird is beautiful.
I still hate hawks.