I’m enjoying the antics of the immature neighborhood hawk. Active from dawn to dusk, sailing from tree to tree, perching in the Chinese elm, calling out his high hoarse kee-ee! kee-ee! The songbirds are invisible.
Other morning the hawk and I shared a pleasant time in “our” back yard. It was fun to watch him in his tree, snaking his head from side to side, the better to see what was traversing the airspace above us. Together we saw high fast flights of doves, egrets, chimney swifts. We spied pink. Roseate spoonbill, I told him. And no you can’t eat him.
Snaking his head. You heard that right. The sinuosity of his neck reminded me that birds are dinosaurs with feathers.
This morning’s reptilian move was inside. What should I spy in the corner by my bathtub but a very young ribbon snake? I mastered my terror enough to admire his dark-eyed striped beauty and sympathize with his waving about predicament. How did I get here? What do I do next? (We both wondered to ourselves.)
By the time I got back with a jar and enough courage to help him into it, he was gone. Where is he now? One may well ask. Sadly, I don’t know.