WAS IT SOMETHING I SAID?

I hadn't spotted my local Cooper's hawk lately, until yesterday. When some survival-related uneasiness niggled in a dark corner of my brain, I looked up from my writing desk and saw one fiercely glaring at me from a leafy hideout in the nearby box elder.

"What," I said, staring back, "little ol' you is sitting there considering big ol' me as potential lunch? Doesn't that strike you as foolishly optimistic?" 

My remarks must have offended the raptor, for it abruptly shook its feathers before turning its head, never deigning to look my way again. After perhaps five minutes of inspecting, studying, scrutinizing, and what might have been a hawk-version of intense gaping, at all manner of objects in every viewable direction except towards my workroom window, the miffed Cooper's flew off.

Nobody likes sassy prey.  

2FER2!

Cooper's hawk, on "refuge" Christmas tree, near the box elder by the front door. I made this shot a few weeks ago, when there was snow on the ground. 

Recently, during the course of answering someone's comment to another post, I replied that our mild winter had apparently made meal gathering easier on the Cooper's hawk, as it had been awhile since I'd observed it terrorizing the feeder-visiting birds and squirrels. 

My casual words obviously reminded the raptors they'd been missing some easy pickin's. This past week, I've watched a Cooper's on the hunt a dozen times—zooming past my deskside window like a feathered jet on a strafing run, leaving the usual mess of mayhem in its wake…discombobulated small creatures scattering every whichaway, and sometimes a few gray-brown feathers floating in silent testimony to that unlucky one which regrettably zigged when it should have zagged. 

Today I've witnessed a double-header. 

About noon a Cooper's flashed around the corner and startled the usual mixed feeder flock into a confused mass retreat. Like a heat-seeking missile, the hawk locked onto a fleeing junco, pacing it turn-for-turn, quickly overtaking to nail the bird in mid-air, a few wing-flaps from where the chase began.

Then, a hour ago, another Cooper's—or maybe the same one—did a reverse surprise assault, coming around the streamside end of the cottage, and plucking a plump gray squirrel from the hanging suet block where he'd been greedily gorging. I watched the hawk carry his limp prize across the river. 

Two-for-two…and the day's not yet over!        

LOOK WEST, YOUNG HAWK

I saw a piece on CNN this morning about a county in California which is overrun by squirrels. It seems the local squirrel population—both ground squirrel and tree squirrel species—is so numerous the little bushy-tailed critters are wreaking all sorts of havoc. Eating everyone's garden vegetables, landscaping flowers and bulbs. Gnawing power lines. Invading attics. Even tunneling under roadways, which causes the paving to break apart and collapse.

The local citizenry seemed to view this squirrel glut as a problem, though I admit my first thoughts were quite the opposite. Attitude is, as I'm often reminded, a matter of perspective. One fellow's disaster can be another's bonus.

Being of hillbilly heritage, and growing up with kith and kin amid a culture where the results of hunting, fishing, and all manner of wild foraging regularly ended up on the supper table, I have to tell you my initial reaction was to see this squirrel boom in terms of meal potential. I thought the best way to handle any squirrel excess would be to lay in a few extra boxes of number 6 shot for the ol' 12-gauge, and get out the family recipes for squirrel dumplin's and burgoo stew. What you had here wasn't a small-animal calamity, but an unexpected opportunity for finer dining.

Naturally, the good folks of the Golden Gate State, tofu-eating tree-huggers to the core, saw things differently. Though being a kingdom of fervent environmentalists, the plan they came up with was acceptably Green, in a bloody-red sort of way. And when you thought about it closely, not all that different from my idea, except it didn't didn't involve firearms and the need for cornbread to sop the gravy.

They way they saw it, hawks and other birds of prey were the answer to the surplus squirrel issue. And so they've built a couple dozen "raptor towers" and installed them throughout the country's rather open countryside, adjacent to the worst squirrel-infestation hotspots. These raptor towers are said to be the latest in man-made perches for a hungry hawk looking for a comfortable rest spot with a high overview, suitable for squirrel bushwhacking. If you've never seen one of these marvels of modern avian engineering, imagine a wood telephone pole with wood crossbeams atop, but no draping wires.

I guess, being part of the Land of Moviemaking and all, they're taking their cue from "Field of Dreams." You remember, that old Kevin Costner flick about an Iowa farmer who's apparently spent just a tad too much time atop the John Deere, hatless under the hot sun. While walking across his cornfield, he hears a voice whisper, "If you build it, he will come." The "it" is a baseball field. He does and "he" and they do come…eventually.

As I say, this is the California concept for squirrel control—build the raptor towers, the hawks will come, and eat, (presumably these will be gluttonous hawks) and presto! problem solved. What they'll then try and attract in to control their leftover plague of hungry hawks once the squirrel surfeit runs out, I'm not sure—pterodactyls, perhaps?

Anyway, it might actually work. Who knows? If anyone can pull off such a plan, it will be those Californians. While those raptor towers aren't exactly natural features stuck onto the landscape, they're not altogether unattractive, and they will make good lookout posts for the squirrels who get appointed to guard duty.

As it happens, too, I've been conducting my own version of raptor-assisted squirrel control. Well, actually, I haven't done anything except watch, and the raptor—a juvenile Cooper's hawk—hasn't controlled a single squirrel or titmouse or sparrow. So far. But I give the bird real credit for persistence. The hawk has stopped by the riverbank regularly over the last few days, perching in the box elder by the door, glaring in every direction in a most predatory manner. If I were a chickadee, I'd be scared witless.

Being young, it's not quite as alert as an adult Cooper's, which makes for easier photography. And the bird is fun to watch, even if it isn't quite the lethal threat it appears. Since it isn't starving, I have to figure it manages to catch at least the occasional meal. I just hope it doesn't get wind of that CNN report and decide to head west. My ratty old box elder simply can't compete with a spanking new raptor tower.

HUNTER & HUNTED

A Cooper's hawk lands in the box elder beyond my workroom window.

Something—a slight noise, intuition—causes the hawk to looked behind…

…and then to turn around…

…for a perch and view facing toward the sound.

Every single inch is scrutinized…

…no direction is overlooked.

Eighteen inches from the window, and fifteen feet from the keen-eyed hawk, a chickadee huddles, back to the feeder which blocks the hawk's view—and seems to stare imploringly at me to not give it's precarious position away.

Even closer to the hawk—in fact no more than five feet away, in plain view on the same side of the tree as the Coooper's—a gray squirrel flattens, caught without refuge, masquerading as a bump in the bark an eyeblink from winged death. Only by holding their places until the hawk gives up and flies off does either near-victim manage to escape the hawk's notice.

——————

Too often, I expect, when we consider wild creatures, we do so with a sugar-coated, Disneyesque overview that ignores the precarious reality of their daily existence.

It isn't easy being a chickadee or gray squirrel, field mouse or raccoon, coyote or Cooper's hawk. Life is tough—quite literally, a life over death struggle. Moreover, a struggle which must be played out and won day after day, winter, spring, summer, fall.

The first imperative, as it is for all of us inhabiting plant earth, is eat or die. Some of us pampered folks might take a rather long time to actually die of starvation. But if you're small with a high metabolic rate, you can starve to death in a matter of hours if you fail to find sufficient food for your next meal.

Food equals energy equals life.

No matter which wild creature you study, one of the first things you realize is how much time that animal spends looking for something to eat and/or actually eating. Grazers graze…a lot. A downy woodpecker spends practically every waking hour pecking and probing up and down the trunks of trees and their branches, looking for insects and spiders, grubs and larva, plus a few tasty seeds picked up along the way. In fact, most birds spend most of their awake time eating or looking for food.

So do squirrels. Yes, they chase around through the treetops a bit, and occasionally stretch out on a limb in the sun for a nap—but mostly they look for food and eat what they find. The same can be said for skunks, woodchucks, and whitetail deer.

Eat or die, there's no other choice. But there's an addendum to the equation: for most animals, it's eat or die…and sometimes die by being eaten. The life-and-death dynamics of predator and prey. To search for food, you must expose yourself to becoming food; the consumer consumed.

At the risk of being labeled anthropomorphic, I'd say there's desperation and terror on the face and in the eyes of the chickadee—and a look of near-resignation on the gray squirrel. A cognizance by both that death is close, maybe inevitable.

If you're lucky, you've never known the experience of being prey. Not much hunts us except other men. The fear of death stalking and finding us amid the long grass, or in a sudden, sharp-taloned swoop from the sky, is not chief among or modern worries. For that, I'm very glad.

Nor should we look upon this hunting hawk as a villain. It isn't, no more than the downey woodpecker searching for an ant or beetle among the folds of bark.

Still, I'm happy that, this time around, both the chickadee and squirrel escaped…though I hope the Cooper's hawk didn't go hungry too long thereafter.

HAWK SURPRISE

A few minutes ago I was getting ready to head out to the bank and grocery store. I figured I'd better give Moon-the-Dog a bit of time in the yard before she hopped in the pickup's cab. We exited out the back door. Moon went her way, I mine…which was around the cottage to take a look at the river. As usual I had my camera in hand.

Imagine my surprise—more like shock!—when a Cooper's hawk suddenly dashed through the trees and landed on the ground about a dozen feet from where I stood. I'd been ambling along toward the riverbank when the hawk flew down. There was no small bird or squirrel on the ground anywhere in the immediate vicinity of the hawk's landing zone; the hawk hadn't been targeting a victim or in hot pursuit. I wasn't dressed in head-to-toe camouflage.

I'm slightly smaller than your average sasquatch, but only slightly. Hawks have excellent eyesight and aren't noted for their inattention or being dullards. Therefore, a nature scribbler standing in his front yard does not expect a Cooper's hawk to plop itself practically at his feet…nor, I suspect, does a noble and savvy hawk expect to subject itself to such an embarrassing and precarious oversight.

I gaped at the hawk. The hawk gaped at me. I raised the camera, focused, snapped a photo. DSLR cameras make a lot of noise. The hawk still gaped at me. I took another photo. The hawk looked left. Photo three. Hawk looking right. And so it went for about another dozen shots—all more or less recording variations of similar poses.

Then Moon-the-Dog came around the corner. Moon gaped at the hawk. The hawk gaped at Moon…OHMYGODADOG! The terrified hawk almost turned inside-out taking off and flapping away. Moon gaped at me. I caused that?

Expect the unexpected. And carry a camera.

A COOPER QUICKIE…

I never quite know what will appear beyond my writing-room window. Usually it's a gray squirrel or Carolina wren, sometime a groundhog or Canada goose.

Today it was a Cooper's hawk. I was busy answering a comment from yesterday's post when a passing shadow caused me to glance up from the keyboard. (Yes, that's right—I'm not a touch typist, so I look at the keyboard and not the screen when I'm typing.)

Anyway, sitting on the ground just beyond the glass was a Cooper's hawk…and like all Cooper's hawks at all times, this one was on high alert—swiveling its head this way and that, looking, staring, scrutinizing. To say a hawk is watchful is like saying the Ohio is a big river—an understatement in the extreme. Hawks are so nervously quick in their sharp-eyed vigilance that they can see everything in every direction at practically at the same time. A hawk is like an all-seeing-eye with feathers and talons.

Like most wild creatures, of course, a hawk is first staying alert to any potential danger to itself. Not that much is going to manage to sneak up and nab a Cooper's hawk. (Although last winter I did watch a small housecat, who should have known better, ambush a Cooper's hawk who was busy ambushing a titmouse. Cat and hawk engaged in a brief but lively tussle—a rolling ball of fur and feathers that whirled dervish-like about the yard for maybe ten seconds, and ended when centrifugal force sort of spat each opponent in opposite directions. The hawk was highly miffed and the cat was embarrassed; the titmouse escaped unscathed.)

This hawk was mostly looking for any movement which might have indicated the makin's of a quick supper. Perhaps a tasty dove. Although it was facing, and often staring at, the stones of the cottage, which were only inches away—so maybe the intended meal had been a mouse or chipmunk.

The hawk was standing no more than five feet away—measured from my nose to his beak. Luckily the camera was on the desk beside the computer. It was late, 5:42 p.m. which is only a couple of minutes from official sunset—though the sun was already below the river corridor's west bank treeline. I knew the bird wouldn't linger long, so there was no time to check or change ISO, shutter speed, or aperture setting; I focused as best I could through the window's glass, fired off several shots…and hoped. According to their exposure data, the 8 shots were all done within the same minute. Then I did what I could in iPhoto to make up for the lack of light.

Incidentally, that dark blur in the lower righthand area is a cactus which sits on the inside window ledge; the lighter blur in the middle shot is a pencil holder on my desk corner.

As expected, the Cooper's hawk didn't stay outside my window for long. That minute during which I made the photos was easily the full extent of the visit—though my guess is that it took up perhaps half that amount of time. Dash in, look around…come up empty…and hurry off to better hunting.

I was just lucky to have witnessed the stopover.

LOOKING FOR RESPECT

Life can be trying. Even a regal Cooper’s hawk must suffer the occasional demoralizing round of respectability issues. As is so often the case in these matters, they occur when you least expect them. Here you are, jetting around the neighborhood hunting circuit in your best stealth mode, dropping unannounced into the midst of your favorite birding hotspots…and gloating with pride as your fearsome visage strikes instant fear in the hearts of those who often shortly become prey. You’re having a swell time—shocking, intimidating, terrorizing. Plus you get the occasional warm snack. What fun! What glorious bloody fun! And then you notice…some of your fellow citizens simply refuse to take you seriously. Was it something you did? Someone you ate? What unknown faux pas initiated your obvious fall from grace. Aren’t you still the noble, awesome Cooper’s hawk? Mr. Death-On-the-Wing? Well, nope. Not if you’ve just landed on the Christmas tree now recycled as a handy refuge for those sparrows and finches regularly startled by your sudden attacks—only to find the other bird in the yard happens to be a Canada goose. A goose who apparently wrote the book on belligerent and certainly outweighs you many times over. A goose which watched you arrive, then quickly headed your way—neck bowed, hissing like a viper, showing every sign that he intended to peck your talons off should you hang around. Retreat was indeed the prudent decision. Then, a few days later…same dried-out Christmas tree. You land on the ground—after first checking around for that danged goose—and hop on inside the tangle of branches to see who might be cowering therein in delicious horror. What you don’t see is the grayish blur which races from the corner of the cottage to the refuge tree, sneaks around the other side…and has the temerity—the chutzpah!—to attack you! Egads! Why, it all but scared you witless! And so, once you’d gotten your feathers rearranged, you crouched on the nearby picnic table and gave that ridiculous feline a piece of your mind: Listen, buddy! Didn’t you learn your lesson last week on that gray squirrel? Scrawny cats don’t try and snatch Cooper’s hawks. We are the predators…not the prey! Does it listen? No, of course not. Cats never listen. And this overreaching puss wouldn't even deign to look your way and take his berating like a man…er, cat. In your face one moment, grabbing at you in total effrontery, scaring the bejeezus out of you—and it won't even look your way, acknowledge your presence, say: Sorry, my mistake. That, in a nutshell, is what's wrong with the world nowadays…respect is hard to come by, and nobody says they're sorry. What's a hawk to do?

• • • • •

[And so, with this twofold flourish, the saga of the Christmas tree-turned-refuge [here] ends for another year. As part of yesterday’s yard clean-up the old Christmas tree, dried and browning, was dragged off to its final reward on the hilltop brushpile, having done yeoman’s duty these many months as the go-to hideout for small birds hoping to flee the clutches of the marauding Cooper’s hawk. The birds—hunters and victims—are now on their own until next New Year’s Day 2010, when the next tree, its decorations removed, is given new duties as shelter and sanctuary.]

FOILED AGAIN!

Today, while still rather cold, has been bright and sunny—in sharp contrast to yesterday which was a series of on-and-off clouds and snow squalls every few minutes. Oddly, however, such changeable weather often produces interesting moments. Yesterday afternoon, a couple of hours after I’d written and posted the piece about the wood duck across the river [here] I looked up from my desk during another snowfall and saw the Cooper’s hawk come swooping in to check out the side-yard’s feeder area for any unwary small birds that might serve as a tasty meal. As always, the old Christmas tree was given a thorough investigation. My camera happened to be handy, so I made a quick portrait. [The white specks you see dotting the image are snowflakes.] The side-yard and tree are regular stops on the Cooper’s daily hunting route; I usually see the bird at least two or three times between morning and late afternoon if I’m spending most of the day at my desk, which offers an easy up-glance at the area in question. You‘d think this means the spot therefore presents a good success ratio for the effort—meals more often than not. But if my observations are typical—and I suspect they are—the truth is just the opposite. Most birds successfully flee the area as the hawk arrives. Small birds which do take quick refuge in the old evergreen’s tangles also escape, darting to safety unscathed, practically under the sharp talons and razor beak of their stalker. Their lifesaving trick is simple—the Cooper’s dives in one side of the tangle, or goes headfirst down from the top, and the hidden birds shoot out the opposite side. The hawk never seems to wise up to the tactic. Of the 40–50 hide-and-seek scenarios I’ve watched during the last month, I’ve only witnessed the Cooper’s end up with a bird firmly in its clutches once. On another occasion the hawk came rolling out (I kid you not—it was on it’s side flapping and tumbling when it reappeared from within the mass of evergreen branches!) with a sparrow, though not quite in control…and the plucky sparrow managed to get loose and fly away before the hawk could right itself and administer the coup de grâce. There could, of course, have been other successful hunts which I missed seeing. Even so, it's clear that for the Cooper’s hawk, feeding daily is a numbers game—make enough stops and you get to eat. And the odds of not being that meal are definitely in the prey's favor. Life as a hawk isn't easy—though honestly, I don't begrudge the Cooper's a few of "my" birds. Everything has to eat to live—and eating and living depend on something dying, even for the most fanatical vegetarian. The process can't be escaped except by degrees. Life thrives on death. The visit yesterday proved to be another "empty" stop for the frustrated Cooper’s hawk who dropped by for a bite to eat…but went away hungry. Can't you just see the expressed annoyance?

ONE MORNING'S BIRDS

Call this the morning’s photographic bird report. All the images in this posting were taken within the space of perhaps thirty minutes. (You can double-click to see them larger, of course.) The session began when I stepped outside to scatter cracked corn for my geese couple who—barely past dawn—were already standing in the yard, impatient to be served. You can’t keep geese waiting. Naturally, the untrusting Canadas flew off the instant I opened the door. These are wild birds, more or less, though they seem to be learning to tolerate my presence. Instead of flying across the river or even farther, they simply glided over the bank to the water, where they bobbed on the current, honking loudly, while keeping a watchful eye on my corn tossing. I pitched out a scoop of yellow grain and picked up my camera for a quick shot. Before I could frame and shoot the geese, I heard a duck quacking upstream. A female mallard was standing on a rock, calling to the drake to get over there and keep her company. I snapped her portrait first, then turned and took a shot of the geese. Looking around, I noticed a few turkey vultures sitting in the tops of some trees across the river beyond the island, testing their wings, waiting for the climbing sun to warm them up before they began their day's scavenging flights. The big birds were located perhaps 250 feet away. Much too distant for more than a mediocre shot. The buzzards are only recently returned from their winter vacations in the South. In fact, these birds are just the early arrivals, a fraction of the 175—200 number of the spring-through-autumn flock that typically roosts in the tops of the island’s big sycamores. The full group won’t manage to get themselves assembled for several more weeks. After a few additional shots—of sunlight on trees, a cloud or two, and crocus biding their time until a higher sun triggered their opening—I figured I’d go back inside and let the geese have at their breakfast. So I headed down the hall to my workroom to check e-mail and upload my photos. I hadn't yet plugged the camera into the computer when I looked out the window and saw a Cooper’s hawk sitting on the stump end of the old Christmas tree, which I recycle as a handy refuge for just this reason: when the hawk suddenly appears, the ground feeders—sparrows, wrens, doves, etc.—have a nearby hidey-hole. (I posted about this in January, REFUGE…NOT REFUSE! here) Some days, when I’m working long hours at my desk and happen to look up at the right moments, I watch the fleeing birds use this hideout tree two or three different times. The wily hawk makes regular rounds and repeats its visits throughout the day. Most times, the tree-hidden birds outsmart the Cooper’s, flying out one side while their would-be killer pokes his hooked beak in the other. A few days ago, though, I saw the hawk plunge into the Christmas tree and come out with a titmouse in his talons. Still, the recycled Christmas tree saves a lot of lives—and I’m glad I didn’t decide to move it yesterday when I spent a few hours giving the yard a spring raking. The final shot, taken perhaps two minutes after the hawk’s (victimless) departure, was of a perky cardinal at the feeder just beyond my workroom window. Here along the river, the redbirds are whistling longer and louder with each passing day: “Spring is here, the sun is shining, and all you lucky ladybirds can’t possibly fail to notice what a handsome fellow I am in my bright scarlet feathers!”

REFUGE…NOT REFUSE!

Like all predators, Cooper’s hawks are persistent. Seldom a day passes that a Cooper’s hawk—likely the same one—doesn’t make at least one pass around the cottage and through the bird-feeder area. The usual drill is to come zipping into the zone from upstream. This keeps the cottage between the incoming bird and potential victim, a hunting tactic which relies on surprise—one moment the unsuspecting birds are feeding happily, the next their worst nightmare of winged death is smack in their midst. Naturally, the feeder gang scatters explosively. Sometimes a confused bird practically flies into the hawk’s clutches. Occasionally, an unfortunate bird gets hampered by limbs or bushes blocking the escape route—a momentary delay that can prove fatal. Or the terror-stricken escapee may get fooled by the reflective mirage of the great room’s window, thump themselves silly, and thereby seal their fate. None of these scenarios are what you’d call a Disney Moment. Reality in nature can seem brutal…until you accept that every living creature on the planet eats to survive, whether they consume sunflower seeds or tufted titmice. My feeders attract songbirds which attract hawks— which are, after all, only another bird. Yet the situation I’ve created—lots of birds at the same location—does aid and abet the hawk. To help counteract this unintended partisanship, nothing beats an old Christmas tree. When the holidays have ended and the decorations have been removed, rather than dragging my decommissioned tree curbside to await the trash haulers, or adding it ignominiously to the compost heap, the tree gets deployed for secondary seasonal duty. Laid on its side near the box elder, at the center of the feeding area, the old evergreen provides an immediate hideout when there isn’t time to fly away—a sort of on-site sanctuary. I’ve regularly watched birds dive into this handy refuge to escape a marauding Cooper’s hawk. Usually the hawk sees them, too—not that it does any good. When placed on their side, Christmas trees pack into a dense mass, limbs tucking inward, long needles closing and covering like a blanket. Add a bit of snow on top and it’s almost a castle keep. The only way you can see inside this solid shelter is by looking up (or what would be “up” if the tree were still vertical) the trunk. The hawk will land beside the horizontal tree and begin circling, craning it neck, trying to peer into the dark, tangled depths of limbs and greenery. Sometimes these aggressive hunters will attempt to wade and wiggle their way into the Christmas tree’s “innards,” figuring to catch whatever they’ve cornered. Which seldom proves manageable for the large hawk. Or the hawk will hop atop the downed mass and try to flush their quarry from its effective shelter. Nothing ever works. The hawk finally gets frustrated, flummoxed at capturing what seemed like an easy meal, and flies off. Though the Christmas tree shelter often holds a dozen or more refugees—ground feeders, usually sparrows and a wren or two, maybe a dove—I’ve never seen a hiding bird get caught. The best part is watching the hidden birds come back out—cautious, just a quick peek; then a better look from a stance outside the dense evergreen mass; finally, the coast clear, either a resumption of feeding or a take-off to elsewhere, more time at a safer distance until the nerves are settled. The wrens like to celebrate their victory with a snatch or two of song, usually performed from atop the horizontal tree. To my way of thinking, this is recycling at its best…turning refuse into refuge.

COOPER'S HAWK RETURNS

An hour ago, before the daylight began to fade and the flat light of an overcast sky started turning the river beyond my work room window into a ribbon of tarnished pewter, I looked out and saw all the birds at the various feeders startle abruptly. A moment later the reason for their sudden flight became obvious when a Cooper’s hawk settled onto a limb of the front yard box elder. 

It was the first time I’d seen the Cooper’s since the weather had taken its wintry turn…though not the first evidence I’d had of its presence.  

Yesterday, when I went out to fill the basket feeders with sunflower seeds and scatter a scoop or two of cracked corn onto the ground, I saw a small pile of feathers beside the box elder’s trunk. I believe the feathers came from a nuthatch, of which there are always at least one or two hanging around. In addition to the handful of feathers, there were also a few drops of blood on the new-fallen snow. Obviously, something had killed and eaten a bird—probably a foraging nuthatch—on the spot. I figured the predator in question was either a hawk or an owl, since both are fairly common here along the river. When the Cooper’s hawk landed in the tree this afternoon and began scanning around like a café patron checking out wall menus, I had little doubt I was looking at the prime suspect. 

I had a couple of Cooper’s hawks working my feeder birds last winter. And at least one the year before—the first winter after we’d moved into this streamside cottage. For a while I was outraged and set about protecting “my” feeder visitors. Then the absurdity of such an attitude struck me: was I going to pick and choose the species I fed? Did some birds deserve to eat while others starved? Was there a moral issue here, or just prejudice?

In the end, I opted to let the hawks be hawks. Which, I must add, wasn’t a death warrant on my feeder birds. More often than not—by a ratio of perhaps 20-to-1— the Cooper’s hawk usually struck out. Usually…

Hey, a hawk has to eat, too.

This time around, seeing as how any potential meal ticket had already flown away, the hawk could do nothing more except look around for a few seconds and then head off to where the pickin's might prove more profitable. Perhaps a neighbor's feeder? 

Anyway, I did manage a quick—though not very good—photo of this afternoon’s visiting Cooper’s.