The bird's shrill call was blown into my kitchen on a breeze through the open door. A hawk, the one who lives in our neighborhood's undeveloped section, was making his presence known.
Earlier in the morning, I'd watched as two mystery fowl -- loons, I thought -- beat their wings against the morning's warm breeze, chased by our resident raptor.
Loons nest on the water. A few online conversations later, I learned they were likely whistling-ducks, formerly named "tree ducks," which explains the bundle of sticks and brush two-stories up in a five-story pinetree next door.
After being a privileged spectator of the winged chase, wherein the trio vanished on the other side of the neighbor's tall, tiled roof, I'd felt mildly reassured when the two prey returned, not to their nest, but back this direction to somewhere beyond. The whooshing of their broad wings was much slower, less syncopated than during their earlier flight from danger.
I returned to my work at the table and hoped no one was left behind in the nest. Their whirring chatter, unique to our neck of the suburb, was no longer heard.
Hours later, the hawk again called on the wind. No other bird dared sing.
At first, peering over the fence toward the nest for signs of life, and seeing none, my heart dipped. Countless springs have come and gone when I've scooped up fledglings and returned them or taken them to rehabilitators. I recalled one particular year long ago during which my cats were especially on target, keeping me on vigilant toes for weeks, and how a singing mother bird reminded me of my own lost little ones. I remember writing away the pain, or trying to, at least.
Fear for the birds' safety rose in me, yet scarcely a second passed when my heart responded with the comfort of transiency. They may be gone, and if not now, then later for sure.
Neither my documentation, written or photographic, nor extending to my son any legacy of my love for birds will make them stay.
Earlier in the morning, I'd watched as two mystery fowl -- loons, I thought -- beat their wings against the morning's warm breeze, chased by our resident raptor.
Loons nest on the water. A few online conversations later, I learned they were likely whistling-ducks, formerly named "tree ducks," which explains the bundle of sticks and brush two-stories up in a five-story pinetree next door.
After being a privileged spectator of the winged chase, wherein the trio vanished on the other side of the neighbor's tall, tiled roof, I'd felt mildly reassured when the two prey returned, not to their nest, but back this direction to somewhere beyond. The whooshing of their broad wings was much slower, less syncopated than during their earlier flight from danger.
I returned to my work at the table and hoped no one was left behind in the nest. Their whirring chatter, unique to our neck of the suburb, was no longer heard.
Hours later, the hawk again called on the wind. No other bird dared sing.
At first, peering over the fence toward the nest for signs of life, and seeing none, my heart dipped. Countless springs have come and gone when I've scooped up fledglings and returned them or taken them to rehabilitators. I recalled one particular year long ago during which my cats were especially on target, keeping me on vigilant toes for weeks, and how a singing mother bird reminded me of my own lost little ones. I remember writing away the pain, or trying to, at least.
Fear for the birds' safety rose in me, yet scarcely a second passed when my heart responded with the comfort of transiency. They may be gone, and if not now, then later for sure.
Neither my documentation, written or photographic, nor extending to my son any legacy of my love for birds will make them stay.
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