Heard a loud thump this morning while my hair was wet and my ears weren’t in yet, but I did not see the downed bird from my angle–and in the moment it took me to think, good, it must have been able to fly away in spite of that one, the hawk was suddenly coming straight at me and then doing a U-turn immediately in front of the window; his feet moved fast enough that I didn’t even see it, but when he reached the fence he had breakfast in his talons.

Sleek as a cheetah.

Now, I have had many an occasion where I’ve had a towhee or dove right up close here and they freeze when I move, staring, ready to flee.

No no, it’s okay, and to show them I’m not stalking them I close my eyes for a heartbeat.

They always relax and go back about their business. Always. (Unless something else starts causing them grief, like a scrub jay showing up.) And for a dove, that business suddenly is all about playing blink games back and forth with me, which charms me no end.

The hawk started to pluck but stopped and watched me: would I make a snatch at his food? Any other predator would be a competitor. He had to be sure.

I tried closing my eyes to the slow count of one to see if that would make him relax, knowing full well that he can fly well across my yard in that amount of time.

Breaking the gaze totally did it. I had no idea what type of feathers were flying as he prepared his meal, the distance making the small bird anonymous from here (for which I was grateful), part of the circle of life.

He ate in peace.

And I lifted my mug when he was done and drank my hot cocoa to the day.

The orange-flowered tree (Grevillea robusta, thank you LA Times) near sunset, the neighbor’s tree that the corvids swamped, as taken through the skylight.  It seems they were going after what the Times called a sweet and drippy nectar, and they must have gotten it all because since that day not a single one has come back. The Cooper’s have the place all to themselves again.

After Anne’s comment about crows, I looked up California ravens–and found that they are genetically identical to the Rio Grande-area Chihuahua ravens, the smallest type, in between crows and regular ravens. Curious. I can tell you that there is a fast food place across the street from Cottage Yarns, and I once sat at the light there watching a crow with a french fry and a local raven staring him down, giving me a good view of the size difference as the bigger bird demanded: Drop it.

The crow did, backing off in a hurry.

I poured the last of the safflower seed into the feeder this morning. I had more sunflower, but I knew the squirrels would empty the thing in minutes if I didn’t cover their version of creme brulee with their brussels sprouts. Time to go to the bird center.

Are you sure you’re up to it? My sweetie asked. (Still fighting that cold.)

I think so–and if I find I’m not, I’ll turn around in a block or two and go home, I promised.

Got there, got my birdseed, chatted a bit. I mentioned my Cooper’s hitting the screen then the window behind it and the woman was relieved that he would have been cushioned somewhat (while I was comforted to talk to someone who knew and cherished hawks, too.)

I drove home thinking about that magnificent bird and how much I wished he would show up and show me he’s okay.

Come late afternoon, a squirrel was quietly grazing on the ground, just where  I like them, but as I glanced up, no birds were to be seen.  The feeders were both nearly empty–not quite but almost–and the safflower was still in the car. Carrying 20 pounds when I’d gotten home just hadn’t been going to happen till I’d rested up a bit.

Long wings zoomed in and landed on the back of the dolly right outside the window–where he was hidden from me by the thick beam at the side of the sliding door. Right there and immediately vanished. He’s so good at knowing exactly what my physical viewpoint is, an essential skill for a raptor. Not like a squirrel, which will think if it can’t see you you can’t see it. Hawks know exactly where they have to be to disappear from the eyes of whatever they’re watching.

I carefully, ever so slowly backed up in my chair.

He kept a steady gaze, okay with that.

And then cocked his head and looked around me and again at me through the window. Pianos never move, computer screens do but this one’s holding still now. He looked over at the squirrel, who was watching him intently and in fear but not quite enough to make him make a mad dash for it–but he did turn his back to Coopernicus for a moment there while trying to decide but turned back again.

Good move–hawks like to come up from behind a squirrel so that those teeth and claws aren’t useful to their prey, from all I’ve seen.

The hawk looked at me again, the sun behind him and his colors in shadow, and in return I radiated love to the best of my ability, thanking him silently for coming, thanking him for reassuring me that he was still flying and that he was alright.

He lifted those wings high, then his feet at first flap, and to the squirrel’s relief, was up up and away.

Saw a Nuttall’s woodpecker two days ago; they live in California on down to Baja with a few into Oregon but overall a small range.

Richard heard it working away this morning, over thataway.

Well then. I was watering the fruit trees this evening and I knew the pattern when I saw it. The background doesn’t show the intense black and white contrast, but the end of the feather there looks as if it were pulled taut, ready to sail into the wind. I like that.

I thought of the days when Richard and I would hold our little ones over our heads (well, mine, anyway) to see mama bird feeding the babies in the crook of the 8′ ash stump the former owners had left for the woodpeckers to carve a home out of–and they had.

That stump has long since gone the way of the earth.

Good to know that whatever this generation of woodpecker needs, it has found.

And. A friend was asking around for advice about her young daughter, and I remembered this article and thought, choose your battles wisely and let go of your pride. But ya gotta love the expression on that eagle’s face on the right in that first photo.

First blush on a plum after two days of heat.

1. The little hanging suet cake has always been a safe spot for the birds that like it.

This past week, for the first time I’ve ever seen after four years of feeding the birds, a jay mastered the art of leaping into the air and grabbing out a patch of suet without smacking its jaw on the cage, which is not big enough for it to land on and they’ve never tried.  This one succeeded at his new work-around. Rise, stab forward, fall, fly back down.

And like squirrels, when one can do it they all can, and like squirrels, they only ask for all the amount they can hide as well as eat, so suddenly I had four scrub jays at once.

One was plenty. They have long bills they menace others with and they are the bullies of the yard–even the squirrels run at the sight of them. They don’t tend to stick around long, but that too was suddenly changing. And the suet cake was going down fast.

I watched. The cage doesn’t hang straight up and down: it’s a bit cock-eyed. The jays only approached it from the side where the bottom is further forward, not where the top would lean over their heads as they dove in.

I was working on a new knitting pattern, marking my spot in my notes with a post-it note, wondering how I could thwart their new discovery…

That’s it!

I put a post-it note on their favored side. I didn’t know if it would adhere to the slightly greasy cage; it did. I didn’t know if it would scare off the other birds; it didn’t.

Three days later it’s still up there, the extra jays have left for parts unknown, we’re back to only one at a time and they leave the cage completely alone.  The chickadees, titmice, and finches reach around the paper or go at it from the other side, it’s all good to them. That was easier than I thought.

2. The neighbor’s towering Australian-something tree has big orange blossoms and I’ve been seeing a pair of ravens diving into them, the branches swaying under their weight. Ravens have a 53″ wingspan–they are not small.

Across the house, across the yard and inside with the windows shut, I heard it and then some and went to go look up through the skylights. Now, to people with normal hearing, bird sounds I guess don’t immediately grab every bit of your attention but to me it was such a novelty.

Twenty ravens! The ones I could see, anyway. Wow. They Halloweened the tree into orange and black, yelling over who got the biggest serving. Several minutes later, two by two for whatever reason they left and their Whos in Whoville moment was over.

Maybe because the lord of the yard had shown up?

3. I saw it happen and went straight to Michelle’s room. She was anguished: “Was that the hawk?!”

“Yes, it was. ”

“It was so loud!”

But in its pursuit of the finch it had hit the screen outside her window before it hit the actual window, and that had to have cushioned the impact a fair bit. I wasn’t sure if the finch had hit at the same time, which would have added to the sound (seemed like it to me); either way, both birds ricocheted off and across the yard and away and were still going last seen.

It couldn’t have been fun but I really think my hawk will be alright from this one. He was flying hard and strong.

Grandson pictures! Go Richard, he got them to work!

The male Cooper’s hawk arrived in an unrushed swoop this afternoon that declared he wasn’t serious about hunting, more a telling off those persistent ravens as to just who owned this spot of the sky; he landed in the olive tree and regarded me a moment, giving me time to mentally thank him for letting me see him before he raised his wings in farewell and was off.

Right on cue to celebrate the day, too: Happy Birthday to my Dad! And to my niece Laura, who has had impeccable timing from day one.

(And don’t miss Frank Bruni’s “Gift of Siblings” from the New York Times, a beautiful piece in tribute to the family his parents raised and are. Oh, and, nothing is torn on Parker’s blanket; it just has carefully-toddler-worked-out gaps for playing peek-a-boo through.)

Some friends stopped by tonight.

Paul wanted to see my fruit trees: how did this clamshell thing work? I walked out there with him and showed him and he looked closely: “So you did get them snapped shut. How did you…” I acknowledged that it took some working around the branches in some cases. There were leaves tucked inside quite a few along with the fruit.

Turns out he has a Fuji apple tree, too, and a pear–what kind of pear? A Comice? Oh, I so want one of those, I told him–and an apricot. They get apricots, but the Fujis and the pears not at all. It’s always the squirrels, and so he’d wanted to see my clamshells in action.

Of which I had a couple extra because my friend Kathy saved them for me and dropped them off at Purlescence last night. (I was a no-show at knit night; oops. She gave me a heads-up and I dropped by this afternoon and retrieved them. Thank you, Kathy! And the Purl Girls too.)

Paul said something about how I would need to poke airholes in them, and I showed him how the produce ones came with them–Kathy’s didn’t, whatever they had had in them previously, but I’d found it no big deal whatsoever to poke some in there. They’re all good.

Paul and his wife had been collecting clamshells after I’d mentioned the idea and they were hoping it really would work; well, for me, so far, totally. We’re crossing our fingers together now.

(Oh and. I saw a slightly lighter colored scrawny-teenager-looking Bewick’s wren today, clearly a fledgling as it bounced around. It so made my day.)

One person besides the driver has to stay awake at all times, I reminded John before he left. He was very much with me on that one. And so he got home at 3:2o this morning safe and sound.

Meantime, a friend offered three large produce clamshells. I got at least five apples snapped inside them, thinking as I arranged them around leaves and twigs and fruit that I definitely owe her a pie in four months. Squirrels: thwarted.

Back to the endless baby sweater. If I’d knitted it in cables it would have been done long ago, but I went for a simple 3×1 rib: on one side, it goes in single-stitch vertical lines against a purl background, and on the other, it pulls widthwise to show you what it really is, but relaxed, the purl stitch vanishes down into the fabric and it looks more like stockinette. I so rarely knit something that simple that I’d forgotten that 3×1 does that.

Part of me is charmed while part of me is mostly by the fact that it’s within 40 rows of being done. That and–just wait till I get to see the baby it’s to go on, that will cure any doubts about it on the spot. It’s not about the knitting at all, it’s about Hudson.

Okay, that just totally perked up my needles. Back to it!

The repair job on the car window was finished this morning.

One last hug and a wave goodbye and our youngest was off.

The house was suddenly way, way too quiet.

I ripped back the top of the baby sweater I’d done wrong. On size 4 needles.

A Bewick’s wren showed up for a quick bite. I had so missed those…

And then this evening a whoosh grabbed my eye as a squirrel and a Cooper’s hawk (the hawk! The male! Hey you, long time no see here!) rushed in, feinting right, then left, and then the hawk grabbed the lawnmower handle, wheeled right again and away. At first impression it had seemed like the squirrel was chasing the hawk! But I think rather Coopernicus simply flew faster than the thing could run and he’d overtaken and gone past it. I don’t think that’s what he was hunting this time; he stayed at birdfeeder height.

He had a tail feather askew. Out of sight now, I looked back to see if the squirrel was watching him go, in taunting mode like the one awhile back that had won the Darwin award, but no, he’d disappeared into hiding. Good.

My mind’s been on the road all day: climbing over the Sierras, careful on those pointing-down freeway curves with the thousand-foot drops, across the endlessness of the Nevada desert, past dusty Wendover and the shriveled former ocean, and at last the lights of Salt Lake City in the distance as you come around yet another mountain, willing John and his friends a safe journey on their long drive back.

Pictures, and of Hudson, too, but still working on getting my WordPress update to show them.

Saturday evening there was one.

Sunday evening there were five.

Tonight I found eleven on the ground, chewed in a top-off-then-hollowed-out pattern so as to get the most of the innards with the least of the skin, the biggest one maybe an inch and a half across and not due to be ripe till September and October. This is May! Just the apples, and only the Fuji variety and not the due-in-June plums–and the dirt under the Fuji tree now looked like a chinese checkerboard with a preemie apple for a marble inserted into one of the new holes.

Game on!

I need me more clamshells, fast.

I saw a Bewick’s wren at dusk on the fence, peering into the neighbor’s garden.

This was huge to me. I had had a delightful courting pair, as I do every year–and then they vanished. Seeing a Bewick’s had been a near-daily occurrence for years and they had become my favorites, and then nothing. For two months. I could only assume the neighbor’s cat had gotten them, as so often happens to their kind, but there one was tonight!

And. There is a squirrel who’s been taught to water ski, here, just for fun.

And. When Sam graduated the last three university degrees, illness got in the way: I once had to call Southwest and explain the Crohn’s and the bleeding, and the good woman on their end took my nontransferable ticket and reassigned it to Richard’s name so he could go in my stead.

This is Sam’s third graduate-degree commencement (this was for her previous one, go, Sam!) and I think it’s safe to say this one’s her last. And so tomorrow I arrive, via Southwest of course, in Baltimore: Johns Hopkins here I come! (Don’t forget to water my potted cherry tree while I’m gone, gotta feed those future birds, right?, ‘kay thanks ‘bye.)

(Sorry for the earworm.)

Out of milk and orange juice, and there was something else we wanted to look for.

Which they didn’t have. But Richard humored me while I went to go see if the latest batch of ooh look, they’re all ultra-dwarf this time! trees at Costco included, by wild chance, a Stella cherry again.

Found one. Didn’t look great. And then two more that did. I actually got a choice.

I doublechecked with my sweetie….

I asked one of the employees for help getting it into the cart past all the lilies on the forward part of the pallet. He moved those out of the way, made sure which tree I was pointing to, I read the tag again just to be certain that this trunk and that tag went together, and then as he brought it over and set it down he started peppering me with questions, very interested: how much were those? $18.99? When do they produce?

I checked the tag: mid-June here, and I told him they grow to only six to eight feet tall and produce about nine pounds of cherries a year. (Found out after I got home that we should get our first ones next year; it doesn’t take them long.)

You should have seen his eyes! “My mother could grow one of those!” Something that small, that productive but not overwhelmingly so, that enticing–what a cool idea!

And so my delayed Mother’s Day present sounds like it means someone else’s mom may very well get one too. Or maybe the Kieffer pear or one of the peaches or apples or that nectarine over there. But the fact that Costco was out when Richard went to get me mine earlier meant that this conversation happened and now there’s all this other good that can come from that. Picturing that fine young man planting a fruit tree for his mother just totally makes my day.

They take so little effort. They last so long. They flower, they fruit, they give so much.

p.s. Michelle saw what she was very sure was a golden eagle as she was coming out of work yesterday, and today, not far from her office, a local golden eagle intruded on Clara-the-peregrine’s territory near her fledglings and Clara firmly escorted the much-larger bird out of there–one of the very few that can prey on peregrines, but not this time. Eric’s pictures of the encounter, here.

“Stace spation?” he asked, turning and looking at me with perfect comedic timing.

Wait. You’re right, that didn’t come out right.

He lifted an eyebrow. Impishly, “You know that’s got to be the most expensive music video ever recorded.”

“Depends on what you count as an expense.” We were both laughing by now.

The first line out of the captain’s mouth took me by surprise the first time I played it earlier today and I cracked up and had to show it to him. Don’t miss it.

(Meantime, today’s falcon photos from Eric. Comet did finally make it out of there after about six hours.)

Edited to add Wednesday morning: Captain Hadfield is front-page news on the Washington Post this morning, with more details, including some of his space experiments. He’s clearly a born teacher.

Happy Mother’s Day!

This morning Richard and I came home from an errand and there was a Cooper’s hawk at the top of the tree behind our front gate, duly noting our arrival. My territory, your territory, no-wings; welcome!

Didn’t quite catch the best moment, but, an Oregon dark-eyed junco male (the one with the black head) feeding his mate. He takes good care of her and it charms me to no end.

And below, the black squirrel that had a bad case of mange two years ago and went bald in patches and her fur grew back in white, making it look like she’s wearing a tank top and head band. She’s easy to spot. She does look like a very agile small skunk from a distance.

Don and Cliff saved six plastic produce clamshells for me, to my great delight, and now I have that many more plums and apples protected from those little thieves that in the past have stripped my Fuji apples clean in a day, two months pre-ripe. The little stinkers.

I know you’re supposed to thin the fruit out to one per branch but there aren’t a whole lot this year to begin with. I left the first cluster I found at two–safe now–and then went eh and snapped a clamshell around the whole threesome I found next.That tomato package was big so I was going to make the most of the space.

They may come out big they may come out small but we will at long last have our first homegrown apples (and plums!) Twenty-one years after I planted that Fuji. Thank you Don and Cliff!

Thank you for the kind words yesterday, everybody!

The peregrine that fell and got put back came down from the roof a bit today–not to the nest, whatever his intentions may have been, but off to the side and in front of the mayor’s office. Somehow every year we have one come eye to eye with the man. Pretty cool perch of office, actually.

I parked myself in front of the monitor and was watching the falcon cam while working on a shawl, cheering three birds with one, lone. One of the other two worked up his courage and finally made it to the upper ledge. He was so excited! A whole new view–LOOK at all this stuff down there he’d never known existed! Whole new types of trees, and and and! He ran up and down the length of it, his feet at the outer edge, he jumped over to the nestbox and chased his mom off–the annual make-the-parents-fly-away pre-fledge game. Chased her twice more as the afternoon went on.

After awhile he finally stood still and faced forward and lifted those wings. He had practiced. Mom and Dad were down there encouraging, flying, circling back around.  He was going to do this.

He pumped hard–

–and found himself swept backwards the width of the ledge. THAT wasn’t supposed to happen! Yow. He abruptly stopped, humbled, and folded those wings in tight. The traitors.

But he wasn’t ready to come down from that mountaintop he’d finally conquered.

Dinner was brought in to the runway. He watched his more timid (probably a day younger) little brother devour while he watched from above. Hunger wasn’t enough to make him give it up.

Still didn’t come down. Still didn’t. Still–oh forget it, and he tried again with this flying thing only this time in the small runway area he knew so well and managed to land where his brother, now full, had just dropped the prey. King of the Ledge quietly finished off the leftovers.

My attention was going back and forth between the somewhat-slippery work in my hands and the screen. But suddenly something here caught my eye and I looked to the left.

My stars!

I’ve never seen her before! I’d been sure I’d heard Coopernicus calling to his new mate, she had to exist, but…wow! Female raptors are a third larger than the males and this one was huge, with a notably lighter chest than my male Cooper’s.

She swung those wide wings around in a tight S curve around an awning support pole, then the birdfeeder, and swooped up into a tree.  We regarded each other a moment. She jumped/flew higher to where I couldn’t see her. Not thirty seconds later, there she was again, reversing the S she had just flown in with one last try at flushing something out from the elephant ears as she passed over and away.

I wasn’t the only one impressed by her size and speed: there was not going to be any teasing this one–a squirrel was cowering under the picnic table the whole time, occasionally glancing at me as if to plead Save me!

Hawk, meet my friend. Hawk meat, my friend.

I finally got to meet the new Cooper’s  and from maybe a dozen feet away. Wow.

If you haven’t read this piece about creating a little unexpected peace on earth, I highly recommend it.

Meantime, we had a bit of drama in falcon land (link goes to the cam) today. The San Jose eyases are quickly shedding the last of their baby down as their feathers come in, their coloring darkening by the day–but their flight feathers are not in yet. They’ve got about a week to go. Eric’s photos from Saturday here.

They’ve been exercising their wings and gradually picking up on the idea. First you jump up to the lower ledge, then get down from that scary place with a whole big new world way, way down there and go huddle in the corner with your siblings, face to the nice solid wall. Later you slightly lift off (in surprise) as you flapflapflap running down the runway, your talons dragging low, not quite entirely willing to give up concrete places, then as those flight feathers keep coming in and your shoulders get stronger and your feet are tucking up better you take that huge leap of faith and reach the upper ledge your parents so often come and go from–or you miss on the first try, oops, as one of them did once.

And then at last you start keeping the fledge watchers on their toes.

They’re not assembled yet. The babies have only been reaching the lower ledge for a few days  now.

Clara brought in food this afternoon, and one of the young got so excited he raised his wings for joy halfway down the runway, flappercized some more towards that low ledge–and poof, he was gone.

There were some stiff winds going on and one had simply picked him up and flung him off.

The cameras panned everywhere. No sign.

To quote the children’s book, Are You My Mother, “Down down down. It was a long way down.”

About a dozen volunteers immediately jumped in their cars and drove in to look for him.

Every year posters go up around City Hall and San Jose State University and the big library at that corner describing fledge watch and whom to report to and what to do should one see a downed baby peregrine falcon. Regulars around there know the annual drill well, and when I’ve been there, people on the sidewalk were always pointing out the babies standing on the upper ledge and the parents taking off and landing, 18 stories up.

I’m told they’re very loud and command attention, helping that outreach effort. I hope this year to actually hear that for myself with the new hearing aids.

And so 90/P–the annual schoochildren’s naming contest isn’t even over yet, all the little guy has is his band number–was found by a passerby who knew to call but not touch. He’d landed on a parking garage. Wildlife rescue got the word, who told the biologist who’d helped bring the species back from the brink.  Glenn Stewart jumped in his car and drove up from Santa Cruz.

The little one is too young to release to the roof to flutter down into the box; he does need those flight feathers, and it’s blowing a good one out there. And so Glenn is taking care of him at home till the wind is predicted to calm down in a few days, having everything needed on hand; in the sky kennel, the baby bird won’t know he’s being fed by a human, and Clara will have no problem taking care of him when he gets put back up at the roof.

He took quite a tumble but birditude and sheer good luck won out and he’s fine and he’s safe. And in the best of hands.