6:57 a.m. 21 degrees, wind WNW 1 mph. Sky: in the east, a waning moon, a sliver less than half, glows like a tungsten filament inside a thin screen of rose-colored clouds, the incandescence of sunrise. The color drains, leaving an impression of the moon, dim and dimmer, fading into the blue-white. Permanent streams: in the dogwoods and alders around the upper stream, a male cardinal trims a dull landscape, candy-apple red in a weft of brown, calls softly . . . tik, tik, tik, tik, tik. Crest erect. Black face sets off a mass of scarlet feathers and red bill. In twenty-four years, I've seen less than ten cardinals in the Hollow, all on the ground, foraging below my bird feeders. Growing ice formations on rocks of lower stream, backwater freezing over. Wetlands: the weight of the cold settles in. Dark brown sweet-gale islets, leopard spots across the beige fur of the marsh. Pond: sealed and dusted, wind patterns across the snow.
Yesterday, early afternoon. Lower pasture. An adult red-tailed hawk perched in black cherry, upright, eyes on fire. Scanned meadow and upper marsh. Tail, more rust than red. Default hawk in most of North America, as varied as the weather. Light phase. Dark phase. Intermediate phase. Krider's redtail, a pale prairie bird. Harlan's redtail, a redtail without a red tail. In Costa Rica, redtails have red bellies and thighs.
Not default hawk here. Coyote Hollow is red-shouldered hawk country . . . but red-shouldered hawks are gone for the winter. This hawk down from the north—Labrador or Newfoundland, maybe the rim of James Bay—may stay until driven farther south by snow.
In North America, redtails hunt from a perch. In the tropics, often from the air. Looks for something to move. Most anything, really. Vole. Gray squirrel. Careless dove or grouse. Maybe, a weasel or a mink. Some redtails have a fondness for rattlesnakes and, in season, loiter around birthing sites and snake dens. Several years ago, in late September, I found the severed head of an adult timber rattlesnake on shoreline above Lake Champlain. The rock was clean when I had walked past earlier in the day. I imagine the hawk plucked a basking snake off the talus, killed it with needle-sharp talons and a bite behind the head. Flew to the edge of the lake and, with a guillotine bite, decapitated the snake. Swallowed the body piecemeal, chunk by chunk, leaving me the grim head to contemplate.
Back home, in the upper pasture, a fearless chickadee appeared. Pestered the hawk. Buzzed around its head, scolding and pecking. The hawk left. Soared high above the valley, leaning progressively eastward toward New Hampshire. Great, lazy circles, wingtips and tail feathers teasing the wind. Mission complete, the chickadee returned to the feeder, full of cheer.
thanks as always for the stories, Ted
You've really sparked my curiosity about the chickadee, and this wee fearless one took on a hawk! I'd read about mobbing behavior of small birds with larger predators, but this was a solitary mobber! I found this interesting site--never knew a flock of chickadees is called a "banditry" (we humans just love naming).
https://spark.adobe.com/page/8fnh3/