It was windy again this week.
I’m not talking about the normal late-winter/early spring gusts that aggravate our allergies and blow the remaining leaves from the treetops. This was real wind. The kind that blows down unstable branches and knocks patio furniture into the pool.
But neither of those things happened. We’ve had so much wind lately that all the branches have already been grounded. And the patio furniture is secure.
There is, however, a nest in our oak tree. I’ve noticed it for the last few weeks and speculated on what type of bird made it. I also worried that the wind might have torn it out of the tree.
Good news is that the wind didn’t blow the nest down.
The other morning I noticed a red tailed hawk perched high up on a bare branch. I mentioned it to Drew. hawks, owls and falcons are fairly common in our area, but this is the first one I’ve seen in our tree.
Later that day I noticed two hawks by the nest.
That solves THAT mystery.
No telling if we’re going to hatch our very own hawks this spring or not. It turns out that Hawks make several nests each winter but end up only using one. Only time will tell if they chose the one in our tree.
The hawks got me thinking about another idea that’s been jangling around in the back of my mind. See, hawks are birds of prey and, while they mostly prey on small rodents like mice, squirrel and rabbits, they’ll also eat other birds and just about any small mammal.
I started thinking about other types of predators and how they find their prey of opportunity.
Thus all the ideas were put together into this week’s piece:
Raptor
Jill N Davies
“Ohmigosh you have to tell me everything!” Miriam said. She leaned into the table so that her charcoal jacket gaped as she reached for her drink with a perfectly manicured hand. Her lipstick left a dusky red ring on the straw.
Chelsea blushed, crumpling and un-crumpling the napkin in her jean-clad lap.
“It was really nice,” she said, still not diving into her entrée. “He was a perfect gentleman—he opened the door for me, pulled out my chair, stood when I got up to go to the restroom…”
“And I saw his profile picture. So handsome!” Miriam gushed.
“He is,” Chelsea agreed. She twisted the fork between her thumb and finger, feeling the uneven thud each time it went from sideways to right side and back again. The heavenly smell of roasted garlic and herbs wafted past as a waiter delivered bread to the table on the other side of the patio.
“Was the conversation good?” Miriam asked, taking another bite of her BLT.
“It was. I think he might actually know more about rookeries than I do.”
Chelsea smiled. Miriam raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Honey, nobody knows more about birds than you do,” Miriam said.
Chelsea found herself blushing again. She might agree if she weren’t so modest. Being an Ornithologist already set her apart from the casual birdwatcher. Winning the Burtoni Award for her work with the Magellanic panguins of the Falkland Islands made it a hard thing to argue against. Her preferred work was in the quiet study of colonies as they adapted to climate change, but if there were some major development—a city expansion, development of long-standing private property… anything that involved the collision of humans with winged, two-legged, warm-blooded, egg-laying vertebrates… she was the one they brought in to do the environmental impact report.
“He says he’s just a hobbyist, but that’s hard to believe. Did you know he was there—in 2008 when EF-2 knocked out half the heron population—he was in Stafford County!” Chelsea said. Her eyes glowed with earnest wonder.
Miriam paused, holding her drink midair, studying her friend. For a moment the quiet between them called attention to the chatter and buzz of activity surrounding them. Miriam returned her mojito back to the table, watching Chelsea’s wide, earnest eyes follow.
“Are you serious, Chelsea?” she asked.
“Isn’t that wild?” Chelsea whispered.
A wide smile cracked the porcelain vernier of Miriam’s face. She slapped the table and let out an honest, hearty laugh.
“Who cares?! Honestly Chelse, you’re so weird sometimes!”
Chelsea could feel the heat creep up the back of her neck. It was normal for friends and family to make fun of her weird expertise, but it still made her uncomfortable—self-conscious.
“I just think that’s cool, is all,” She mumbled, fidgeting with the stem of her margarita glass.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” Miriam said with her best effort at being serious. She dabbed a potentially nonexistent tear from the corner of her eye. She took a deep breath to settle herself, took a bite out of her pickle, then went on. “But seriously, he seems like a catch. Are you going to see him again?”
“I don’t know,” Chelsea admitted.
Miriam’s jaw dropped. “What? He seems so perfect—and perfect for you! Why not?” she whined.
“I don’t know,” she said again. “It’s something.”
“Something? You want to hinge the love of your life and your future perfect family on something?” Miriam shook her head.
“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s a feeling. Like something is funny. Like it’s not what it seems like it is,” Chelsea said. She was reaching, but she didn’t know what else to do.
“So figure it out! Go on another date with him and get to know him,” Miriam said. She took another, longer drink of her mojito. Setting the drink down, she shrugged, “It’s probably just cold feet. You shouldn’t self-sabotage.”
“Yeah, probably,” Chelsea agreed. “He wants to take me to Saint Alouette on Thursday.”
Miriam’s eyes widened. “The one on the bay?”
“It’s actually an estuary,” Chelsea corrected.
“Bay, estuary! Who cares? Chelsea, it’s the best French restaurant in town—you have to go!” Miriam whined.
“I’ll think about it,” Chelsea said.
~ ~ ~
He strolled away from the warm patio lights and fading music, toward the bay. Long legs carried him brusquely into the darkness.
She was a no-show.
He’d thought it had been a slam-dunk. He had been so interesting. She had been so charmed. They’d connected.
Hollow footsteps echoed off the marsh-level boardwalk, quieting the incessant chirp of arduous insects. Somewhere in the distance a lone heron took flight, leaving a ripple on the otherwise placid water.
He was angry. Frustrated.
An owl glided past, perching on a low branch and hooting in sympathetic concurrence. We all need to eat.
The boardwalk took him to the edge of the bay—far from the lights and bustle of the restaurant and parking lot—to where he’d planned to take her for a stroll after dinner.
“The Black-bellied Plover come here to nest,” He would have said, to highlight his knowledge.
She would know this, but she was meek, polite. She would have let him tell her what he knew. He would have put his arm around her shoulder when she shivered and…
But she stood him up.
His craned his neck and it seemed to elongate. He blinked dark, hungry eyes that rested above the sharp beak of his nose. He would not feed tonight.
The owl hooted again, and he responded with a piercing caw of frustration. The crickets were still quiet.
In the distance the cellist began to play a low, slow melody that blended with the night. The fog would be on its way in anytime now.
He looked back one, final time at the warm glow, where happy couples dined—to where they gathered, alone but together.
Safety in numbers.
He looked away in distain, then took flight.
The End
Check out this week’s piece on IGTV! It’s not my smoothest, and you get a bit of kid in the background, but Woo-hoo! It’s done!
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