The Morning Hunt

 

It was a dark brown spot at edge of the open field below that caught his eye as he made long soaring turns at 200 feet in and out of the morning updrafts. The sun had been bright for some time now and he had been searching since first light for breakfast. Just about anything that looked like a meal was getting a second, closer look. This time, with a potential meal in sight, he started a slow gliding turn, moving his fully extended wings almost imperceptibly as he slipped off the cusp of a warm rising current. He raised his head and slightly lowered his legs, increasing the relative angle of his body against the ambient wind. His heart rate quickened. As his forward speed slowed, the feathers atop his wings began to flip loosely in the stalling air. He came to a stationary hover, flutterring his wings rapidly in order to retarget his prey. The trajectory he would need to follow was instinctive, automatic, without error. Then, he rolled and dropped almost 100 feet vertically from a liquid clear sky toward the small lump nibbling in the tall grass, unaware. The attack, executed with instinctive precision, was silent, sudden and violent. There was no time for an alarm or even a shriek as three talons, two from one side, one from the other, pierced the heart of the unsuspecting animal, ripping him, dead, in a stir of dust and sand from the earth where he had lived. We called them chickenhawks when we were kids and believed firmly that all nearby chickens were in grave danger anytime their distinctive screeching was heard. Looking back, though, I can’t really remember even one of them ever showing the slightest interest in chickens. …ah, the rich juice of childhood legends.

It was a dark brown spot at edge of the open field below that caught his eye as he made long soaring turns at 200 feet in and out of the morning updrafts. The sun had been bright for some time now and he had been searching since first light for breakfast. Just about anything that looked like a meal was getting a second, closer look. This time, with a potential meal in sight, he started a slow gliding turn, moving his fully extended wings almost imperceptibly as he slipped off the cusp of a warm rising current. He raised his head and slightly lowered his legs, increasing the relative angle of his body against the ambient wind. His heart rate quickened. As his forward speed slowed, the feathers atop his wings began to flip loosely in the stalling air. He came to a stationary hover, flutterring his wings rapidly in order to retarget his prey. The trajectory he would need to follow was instinctive, automatic, without error. Then, he rolled and dropped almost 100 feet vertically from a liquid clear sky toward the small lump nibbling in the tall grass, unaware. The attack, executed with instinctive precision, was silent, sudden and violent. There was no time for an alarm or even a shriek as three talons, two from one side, one from the other, pierced the heart of the unsuspecting animal, ripping him, dead, in a stir of dust and sand from the earth where he had lived. We called them chickenhawks when we were kids and believed firmly that all nearby chickens were in grave danger anytime their distinctive screeching was heard. Looking back, though, I can’t really remember even one of them ever showing the slightest interest in chickens. …ah, the rich juice of childhood legends.

Coopers Hawk
(Double click to enlarge)

It was the dark shadow at edge of the field below that caught her eye as she made long soaring turns at 200 feet in and out of the morning updrafts. She had been hunting since first light without success and now the sun was bright making any prey more wary and skittish.  Her hunger was growing.  There was little time left until the morning heat would reduce the prospects of a successful hunt to zero.  Anything that looked like food was now getting a closer second look.

 

The dark figure was next to a decaying log.  It moved. She began a slow gliding turn angling her fully extended wings imperceptibly as she slipped off the cusp of warm rising air that held her aloft.  She raised her head and slightly lowered her legs, increasing the relative angle of her body to the horizon. Her heart quickened as her forward speed slowed high above the field. 

 

The feathers atop her powerful wings began to flip loosely in the stalling air. Reaching a near stationary hover, she fluttered her wings slightly to steady her position as she retargeted her prey.  The attack would be innate, automatic and precise.

 

Her plan complete, she tucked her wings and dropped vertically nearly 100 feet from a liquid clear blue sky toward the small furry lump nibbling in the grass at the field’s edge. The attack was out of the sun, silent, sudden and violent, executed with absolute precision.

 

There was no alarm or even a shriek as three talons, two from one side, one from the other, pierced the heart of the unsuspecting animal, ripping it, dead, in a stir of dust and dirt from the earth where it had lived.

 

The morning hunt would not go unrewarded.  

 

Sandspur

2013-03-30