5:08 a.m. 41 degrees, wind ENE 0 mph. Sky: blue with thin, wispy clouds, gilded by sunlight. Ostrich fern upright; more like a tapered tail feather than a fiddlehead, well beyond consumption. Cinnamon and interrupted fern are also knee-high. Bracken's first appearance roadside, purple-green. Ash still in bud; still good for spotting warblers. Hazelnut flower buds swell, sheltered by toothy, mint-green leaves. Yellow birch catkins yellow. Brushstrokes of sunlight run down the valley’s western flank; chlorophyll runs up. Oaks awaken; their soft yellow-brown leaves as tiny as a mouse’s ear.
Late yesterday afternoon, my neighbor led me into a wooded crease on the northeastern shoulder of the Hollow, not too far from home. Halfway up an unimposing pine, a pair of goshawks had wedged a nest, a great burden of sticks, a substantial home for substantial birds. The female (much the larger) tore through a weave of branches screaming at us. Alternate perching and flying, always screaming. The male, also screaming, appeared and disappeared, never perched. Magisterial birds . . . pale as moonlight. Their red-eyes burn holes in squirrels and hare. A grouse's grim reaper. For me, goshawks are unalloyed magic, giving weight to a landscape without having to be seen. In fact, until yesterday, I had no idea they were here.
While gravity assists peregrines, goshawks assist themselves, An aerial gymnast. A goshawk scorches nearly 40 mph through the woods, twisting and turning between branches, around trees, diving into brambles. Type A personality, maybe triple-A. Goshawks are the epitome of hyperactivity, acutely and deadly focused like heat-seeking missiles. A weasel with wings, a hummingbird with appetite. A goshawk burns calories needs food. A pair may hunt a dozen valleys, perhaps an entire watershed, which is why goshawks are as rare as Indianhead pennies.
Immediately, these birds loan the Hollow their unimpeachable gravitas. Bitterns beware. Turkeys take cover.
A sapsucker, a PowerBar for a goshawk, taps the same maple, the fifth morning in a row. A pair of pine warblers chase each other from spruce to cherry. After they leave, chestnut-sided warbler lands in the cherry; then sings. Not impressed, a female goldfinch, shoos him away.
Some core of desire satisfied, I slowly walk toward home thinking of goshawks; my view of the neighborhood has undergone a seismic shift.