It was winter when the sharp-shinned hawk first showed up near the bird feeder.
All through the cold and snowy months, he’d swoop in every now and then, setting off widespread panic among the juncos picking up spilled seed on the ground, below the porch.
The sharpie wasn’t a daily visitor, only maybe once a week, and always in the dimming light of late afternoon when the feeders, and the ground below, were bustling with lots of small birds stocking up for the cold night ahead.
Matt Bartmann / Special to the Courier & Press This pair of tree swallows used hawk feathers to soften their nest.
We never saw him get a bird, though I expect he did.
Mostly, we just witnessed the effects of his arrival — juncos, pine siskins and chickadees frantically dashing in all directions.
Then the feeder would be empty of traffic for an hour or more while the sharpie sat unmoving in a tree, waiting for the birds to forget he was there.
We called him “he,” though we didn’t know for sure, since male and females look alike, except for size. And this guy always came alone.
When spring came, the hawk rarely came to stalk the feeder, except when a snowstorm moved in.
I was sitting on the porch one mild spring day when I got a look at another side of his life: He and his mate were doing courtship maneuvers in the air, over the tall spruces and lodgepole pines east of the house.
For five good minutes, I watched them play in the air, one flying high, one fluttering low and slow, then trading places, while keeping up high-pitched chittering calls.
“We’re gonna have nesting hawks!” I crowed. Then I remembered the downside. “Uh-oh, sorry, juncos.”
We were down in town the day one of the last deep snows hit the mountain, dumping a foot of fresh white. By the time we made it back up to the house, dusk already was beginning to gather.
Chickadees scolded us as we stepped out of the car.
“Where’s our seed?” they demanded as I hurried to grab the birdseed can so I could give them supper.
Rounding the corner of the porch, I saw the hawk right away.
He was laying on the fresh snow, dead. His eyes hadn’t even glazed over yet, so it must have happened just before we got home.
Even though I didn’t notice the telltale feather prints on the glass until later, I knew the story right away — he’d been chasing a bird and hit the big glass window going at full speed.
Oh, no.
Things got even sadder when, a little while later, his partner arrived.
“She’s looking for him.”
I carried his body to the edge of the woods, where she would be sure to see it.
She left. To this day, she hasn’t returned.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The dead hawk slowly began returning to the earth, as various critters took whatever they could use.
Last week, a pair of tree swallows decided to make their home in an old woodpecker hole in a dead tree not far from the porch.
Watching them carefully alight on the driveway to pluck long stems of dead grass, I suddenly remembered that swallows love feathers for nesting.
“What do we have with feathers?” I wondered out loud.
Then I remembered the hawk.
Thanking our little fierce friend, I plucked some of his soft feathers and tucked them into the tips of tall weeds along the driveway.
The swallows spotted them in no time.
Every feather the hawk contributed is now tucked into the swallows’ home, to soften the nest and keep the babies cozy.
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