Hawk and I

ProfessorRoush set out this morning to face a dreaded chore;  bush-hogging the pastures nearest the house (on this side of the draw where it's semi-safe to drive a tractor).  I only do it once yearly for the primary purpose of mowing down noxious weeds on the prairie; foremost among which are the thistles, with the Wavy-Leaf Thistle, Cirsium undulatum, most common here (upper right).  I grew up mowing bull thistles on the home farm in Indiana and, as I've mentioned before, my maternal grandfather always said to mow them on June 21st to control them.   I'm a little late this year, but years of observation has convinced me that the purpose of the date is to mow them near bloom and before these biennials set seed and I'm still within that window.

I dread the annual pasture-mowing for a number of reasons.  First, I don't trust my inherited tractor on the Flint Hills; it's top-heavy and too powerful for its weight, with a tendency to want to jump as you let off the clutch.  I'm extra-darned careful with it and don't trust it for an instant.  Second, it's normally hot and miserable out there this time of year and mowing takes a full afternoon.  Third, I don't want to mow because it alters the prairie ecology, cutting down forbs before they bloom (particularly stealing milkweeds from the migrating monarchs).  But its a necessity to control the sumac and thistles.

This year, however, I had a close observer the whole time, watching the every move of the loud green machine and tired primate riding it.  Watching me, literally, like a hawk.  To be specific, watching me like a red-tailed hawk, hoping, I'm sure, that I would flush out dinner in the form of a nice prairie mouse or rabbit.

I first spotted it atop my barn gate about 1/2 hour after I started mowing.  Since I always have an iPhone handy, I stopped and opened the camera app, only to be immediately disappointed as I zoomed in and it began to fly away ( 2nd photo, left).

Thankfully, it came back, again and again, first on the same gate as seen in the 3rd paragraph (I'll leave you to decipher the meaning of the Greek language "Molon Labe" sign), then on a fence post (4th paragraph, on the left), and then on a native Mulberry tree (here, right), always nearby as I went round and round the pasture.  I apologize for the pictures; I wish they were clearer, but alas, the iPhone was all I had available, placed at full zoom, and held as still as I could on a vibrating, roaring tractor.  And the stark, full sunlight in a cloudless July prairie sky also isn't good "photo-quality" lighting.

I could only pray to see it catch something, and so Hawk and I were both excited as it swooped down on something in the tall grass next to a just mowed area (5th paragraph, right).  I hadn't seen anything bounding into the tall grass, so I was hoping to see Hawk rise up with a snake, but Hawk, clearly disgusted by a miss, looked back at me as if it was blaming me for its lack of success.  I'm sorry, Hawk.

While still on the ground, it did give me this last profile shot, however, the best glimpse yet of the red-tail feathers of its name.  And then it took off again, returning to its vigil, a sweeping shadow passing back and forth over me for the duration of my mowing, hunting prey, I surmise, in each pass.  Hawks will be hawks and I appreciate my moments spent with this one.

Hawk Homage

I write today in awe of one of nature's most finely-tuned predators, the Red-Tailed Hawk, Buteo jamaicensis, ubiquitous on the Kansas prairie and deadly in that realm.   It may have been first described to the Western world from sightings in Jamaica, hence the species name, but it does pretty well on mainland North America.  The photo at the right, of a watchful Red-Tail, ensconced on my cotton-less and currently leaf-less Cottonwood, was taken yesterday evening from my bathroom window, a mere 50 feet from the silent vigil.  The Cottonwoods in my yard are the tallest trees available for a circle of approximately 60 acres, and they are finally large enough to serve as aerial perches for surveillance and attack.  When I took the picture, the coyotes were beginning to howl from the bottoms and the hawk kept looking that way at each new howl, distracted from its concentration on the grass just below it.

We work, the Red-Tailed Hawk and I, with the common goal of population control of the prairie mice and pack rats, although our motives are vastly different.  She aims to feed, herself or her family, on the wholly scrumptious intestines of any little ball of rodent flesh she catches.  My intent is to protect the landscaping from damage, the house from infestation, and my family from disease (i.e. scary things such as Hantavirus).  I only wish she would rid me of the adult rabbit that is currently occupying my front garden beds. I see a brazen lagomorphic lout every morning;  as I open the door and flip on the outside lights to let Bella out, it runs across the front sidewalk, not 6 feet away.  Every morning.  I just know that if I don't get rid of it, I will soon find that the Burning Bushs' have been chewed down to kindling. I know that Red-Tails do feast on rabbits, but it is hard for me to believe they regularly make off with adult rabbits.  In that regard, I have hope for the Great Horned Owl that I hear hooting every few nights.   I suppose it is past time to set out the humane rabbit trap and relocate Mr. Cottontail far away.

As a soft human, I can only marvel at the sharp eyesight and patience of this common prairie denizen.  Sitting in a tree, or soaring in circles above the tallgrass prairie, they can spy the slightest movement, the most furtive rodent slinking, and pounce in an instant on prey.  I have the privilege to observe the moment of capture several times a year, so common is the occurrence here, but I'm always left breathless and stunned by the speed of the stealthy diving swoop. I'd love to show you a picture, but I'm sure that I would spend endless weeks in the grass, camera in hand, before I would ever get that lucky.   Just as recently as early September, however, when I was mowing some of the prairie grass to benefit the donkeys, a hawk audaciously grabbed a pack rat from right in front of the moving tractor.  Was it a Red-Tail?  I wish I could tell you.  There was a blur, a thump audible even over the tractor engine, and a large bird lifted off from the ground, a struggling pack rat clenched in its talons. 

I cheered the hawk, blessed the wonder of the moment, and kept on mowing.  I hope it ate well that night.