I was finishing up the laundry in the early evening, thinking it was about time to start on dinner, and came around the corner just in time to see the last of the speeding tilted sweep around the feeder and the landing in the yard.
Uh oh, she’s back–Coopernicus looked up at me.
Then his right wing fluttered and he struggled, a second flutter like he was catching his balance–and then a firm stillness. (Cooper’s hawks kill their prey with their feet.)
He watched me.
I watched him.
The squirrels had disappeared, cowering; one has lost the end of its tail of late. They’ve learned a little respect. I wondered if the one on the patio had ducked under the lawnmower blade again–I don’t know how he managed that squeeze, but there was one time I bumped the handle and had an explosion of black fur dashing out at my feet.
The hawk and I took each other’s measure for a long, long moment. But one black squirrel, unable to stand it any longer, moved in the trees, and at last he lifted off to get his dinner ready elsewhere.
He’ll take his with some Fall seasoning: a finch assault and pepper.