On the Wing #2: To Be Studied by Wild Eyes
One of the more awe-inspiring moments one can experience while young is being in the presence of a bird of prey. While many have certainly been fortunate to see a soaring Red-tailed Hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) or Turkey Vulture (Cathartes aura) o'er a sunny field or along a highway; an up-close and personal encounter with a raptor tends leave a more distinct impression. After coming to the United States, my interest in birds was a burning ember wishing and wanting to gain the fuel of knowledge and oxygen of experience that would drive me to seek out the birds I so desired to see. While I was only seven or eight years of age, I could recognize the commonest birds like no ones business. Jays, cardinals, titmice, robins, and nuthatches flitted through my world and I sought them where ever my parents brought me. I would seek out sparrows in the parking lots of supermarkets, listen for chickadees and nuthatches at nearby Drumlin Farm, as well as seeking out the birds of prey that lived on Bird Hill, and read any bird book I could get my hands on. But despite all these travels around town and the surrounding wild lands, it would be in my own home that my experience with raw wildness would come at me full force.
I was at home watching the birds at our feeder and all seemed normal. The standard clientele of chickadees, titmice, and cardinals were all present, happily feeding on the commercial bird mix that contained a mix of sunflower, safflower, and assorted millet seeds for attracting wild birds. They flitted from branch to feeder and back to branch again in a leisurely, but efficient manner. The chickadees and titmice would find a choice sunflower seed and fly off to a nearby perch in order to hammer it open with their durable awl-like bills. The cardinals were better equipped. They possessed the crushing beaks that allowed them easier access to the seeds on offer and lazily crunched on seeds like baseball players in a dugout. All seemed calm in the woodlands surrounding our house and feeder.
Suddenly a quiet, but startled pandemonium took hold as the birds became aware of a hidden danger and fled into the low branched trees that provided the feeders backdrop. I watched in awe of this sudden dispersal and wondered what had caused such quiet, yet frantic panic. For whatever reason (I'm still not aware how I perceived this myself), I looked up above the feeder, to the treeline above. My eyes widened in fear and astonishment at the creatures that stood above me. On a precarious snag above the trees was perched not one, but two Northern Goshawks (Accipiter gentilis). I froze. I don't know why, but I was fearful that they might come and get me. I knew from reading my battered copy of "Birds of the Northeast" by Winston Williams that they were capable of tackling creatures up to the size of a snowshoe hare, grouse, and possibly even an adult Mallard (Anas platyrhynchos), but certainly not a human child! I knew that they were surprise hunters, using their jet-like speed and maneuverability to nimbly avoid trees, branches, and the brush of the forest floor to attack their prey. After a successful sneak attack, this terrifying gray bullet would then surprise its prey by appearing from an opening and nabbing it before it knew what had hit them. Often after a successful strike, to reinforce the potency of their reaping to any nearby watcher or passerby, they would pluck morsels from their kill, scattering feathers and down in its wake. Perhaps this was a grim reminder that death in the forest could be quick and sudden, cunning and often without warning.
I watched these birds from the window. I studied their features, their demeanour, and most noticeably, their glowing eyes. An adult goshawk has blood red irises, while the juveniles and immatures have less menacing, but just as imposing yellow eyes. It can be said of birds with darker eyes such as chickadees, robins, and other songbirds that they seem kinder, more subdued, and less likely to display "anger" than birds with lighter and more imposing glares. The hawks that stared back at me with the intensity of a school librarian scrutinizing the pages of recently returned textbook, checking for details that might indicate a weakness, a potential victim of neglect and ill form. I looked away to regain my senses. I was amazed and petrified at the same time. These hawks, these imposing and awe-inspiring creatures had awakened within me a feeling that probably many a shaman and other medicine man has felt when confronted by the awesome power of nature that just happened to have been on show for them to view. Taken as signs from the gods, these encounters were then transcribed into legend and myth for the generations beyond to stand in awe of as well.
When I turned back to view my watchers they had vanished. I couldn't believe it! Like wisps of smoke on the wind, these powerful birds had lifted away to explore the world beyond. I sat in amazement and wondered, "Did that really just happen? Did I make it up as something cool to see? NO! Of course not!" I'd never felt anything that real up to that point in my life and probably never would again. Years later, I think back to the power that that pair had over me with their imposing size and menacing glares. I am thankful that I got to see them. After all, it's not everyday that one feels like the prey of a raptor.
I was at home watching the birds at our feeder and all seemed normal. The standard clientele of chickadees, titmice, and cardinals were all present, happily feeding on the commercial bird mix that contained a mix of sunflower, safflower, and assorted millet seeds for attracting wild birds. They flitted from branch to feeder and back to branch again in a leisurely, but efficient manner. The chickadees and titmice would find a choice sunflower seed and fly off to a nearby perch in order to hammer it open with their durable awl-like bills. The cardinals were better equipped. They possessed the crushing beaks that allowed them easier access to the seeds on offer and lazily crunched on seeds like baseball players in a dugout. All seemed calm in the woodlands surrounding our house and feeder.
Suddenly a quiet, but startled pandemonium took hold as the birds became aware of a hidden danger and fled into the low branched trees that provided the feeders backdrop. I watched in awe of this sudden dispersal and wondered what had caused such quiet, yet frantic panic. For whatever reason (I'm still not aware how I perceived this myself), I looked up above the feeder, to the treeline above. My eyes widened in fear and astonishment at the creatures that stood above me. On a precarious snag above the trees was perched not one, but two Northern Goshawks (Accipiter gentilis). I froze. I don't know why, but I was fearful that they might come and get me. I knew from reading my battered copy of "Birds of the Northeast" by Winston Williams that they were capable of tackling creatures up to the size of a snowshoe hare, grouse, and possibly even an adult Mallard (Anas platyrhynchos), but certainly not a human child! I knew that they were surprise hunters, using their jet-like speed and maneuverability to nimbly avoid trees, branches, and the brush of the forest floor to attack their prey. After a successful sneak attack, this terrifying gray bullet would then surprise its prey by appearing from an opening and nabbing it before it knew what had hit them. Often after a successful strike, to reinforce the potency of their reaping to any nearby watcher or passerby, they would pluck morsels from their kill, scattering feathers and down in its wake. Perhaps this was a grim reminder that death in the forest could be quick and sudden, cunning and often without warning.
I watched these birds from the window. I studied their features, their demeanour, and most noticeably, their glowing eyes. An adult goshawk has blood red irises, while the juveniles and immatures have less menacing, but just as imposing yellow eyes. It can be said of birds with darker eyes such as chickadees, robins, and other songbirds that they seem kinder, more subdued, and less likely to display "anger" than birds with lighter and more imposing glares. The hawks that stared back at me with the intensity of a school librarian scrutinizing the pages of recently returned textbook, checking for details that might indicate a weakness, a potential victim of neglect and ill form. I looked away to regain my senses. I was amazed and petrified at the same time. These hawks, these imposing and awe-inspiring creatures had awakened within me a feeling that probably many a shaman and other medicine man has felt when confronted by the awesome power of nature that just happened to have been on show for them to view. Taken as signs from the gods, these encounters were then transcribed into legend and myth for the generations beyond to stand in awe of as well.
When I turned back to view my watchers they had vanished. I couldn't believe it! Like wisps of smoke on the wind, these powerful birds had lifted away to explore the world beyond. I sat in amazement and wondered, "Did that really just happen? Did I make it up as something cool to see? NO! Of course not!" I'd never felt anything that real up to that point in my life and probably never would again. Years later, I think back to the power that that pair had over me with their imposing size and menacing glares. I am thankful that I got to see them. After all, it's not everyday that one feels like the prey of a raptor.
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