Another whomp against the window. I jumped up, and there he was! This Cooper’s hawk must know a good thing when he sees it. Last night it snowed, and when I finally put out fresh birdseed in the morning, it attracted quite a crowd. You can’t tell from this picture, but that rock he’s resting on holds down the platform feeder. No crowds now, I bet.
Might be a juvie
This has never happened before: tanagers, orioles, and lazuli buntings at the feeders, often at the same time. I’ve only seen female Bullock’s orioles so far. They and the female tanagers are hitting the hummingbird feeders, of course. (Jesus, this is turning into a bird blog!)
Meanwhile the goddamn squirrels are on a rampage. Running barefoot outside with my BB gun is counterproductive (ouch). The rodents have no shame, reappearing five minutes after I chase them away. You know what that means: the bastards are vulnerable! Later today I’ll shift to direct hunting mode and lie in wait. If the BB gun doesn’t faze ’em, there’s always the carbine or the .410. My machete would be more satisfying. Whack their stupid heads off, stick them on little pikes around the feeders.
It’s already snowing across the valley, with Taos Mountain completely blotted out. We could get half a foot overnight. I should have some lovely hummingbirds-in-the-snow photos by this time tomorrow.
Oh Lord.
If he grabs you, better keep real still
A loud whomp against the window glass usually means a bird, so I got up to look outside. The trick is to find the unconscious feathered missile before the cat does and move it to a safe place; if its neck isn’t broken, the victim usually revives and flies away. That wasn’t the case with this black-headed grosbeak, however.
The Cooper’s hawk stood there like that for a good long minute. Every time the grosbeak twitched, the hawk gave a little jump and tightened its grip. Twitch, crunch. Twitch, crunch. Before long, pretty much everything was broken. When I pushed the screen door open a little bit more to get a better angle, the hawk took off and flew away, carrying the prey like it weighed nothing.
High up in the mountain valley of San Cristobal thirty minutes north of here, I used to feed the birds by putting sunflower seeds out on rocks and stumps behind the house. This always attracted lots of jays and magpies, and of course the hawks. Sometimes there’d be two or three raptors attacking at the same time! Different sized hawks, I didn’t know what any of them were. The birds on the ground would keep an eye on the hunters while they ate and hop out of the way at the last second. It looked like they were playing a game, and I never saw one get caught. Sometimes a hawk would give up and rest on a fence post a few yards away just to stare at the jays.
This is the shadow side of feeding the birds. I don’t like to see them die, but on the other hand it is a thrill to see the raptors. They usually miss, anyway, like the peregrine falcon that swooped right over my head as I sat out back having a drink a few days ago. But maybe that one was just passing through instead of chasing collared doves.
That Cooper’s hawk, though, it radiated Death. Implacable and direct. So powerful, too, and bigger than you think: three flaps and it was out of sight. I felt like I was in the presence of a feathered god.
Now that is a bird
What am I supposed to do, not take a picture? He keeps coming back, and he’s got a mate! I’ll have a shot of her directly. Over ten years in this location and only one previous sighting; now they seem to be settling in the neighborhood. I should build them a birdhouse that looks like a little single-wide with tiny tires on the roof.
What a concept
I was wondering what kind of vehicle to get. I want to be able to get out in the boonies or drive cross-country if I need to.
Back on the Eastern Shore of Maryland when weirdos and hippies could rent old houses on the water for fifty bucks a month, my old friend and fellow Texan David Ashworth drove a heavily-massaged first-generation Ford Bronco that sat up high on great big wheels and ran a mean V-8 with dual exhausts. David was tall with a big bald head and most of his Green Beret physique. He’d sit up ramrod straight with his sunglasses on and whip that thing around, and it would scoot, too. I went with him once on a trip across the Bay to Annapolis and learned it ran on beer. Well, he did. We did that time, actually. One of the fondest memories of my manly life so far is pissing in the parking lot that day. It was the middle of the afternoon and we had just pulled in beside some office building. The point is, we had to go, and David was just a few years out from being shelled by the North Vietnamese.
No, this isn’t off the track at all. Mobility, nerve, and great desire. Exploring with a camera and laptop. Scouting missions to unknown realms, getting into trouble. Whoa!
Damn, I need a garage.
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