roadrunner and hawk

Different birds continue to take up residence  this winter. Lesser Goldfinches and Pine Siskins have become the most recent regulars. This has been the best-ever winter bird population. My “attention range” is sometimes jolted by the behaviors performed by these birds. At such times I feel as if I am being told to become aware and to take notice.

Two Sharp-shinned Hawks swoop by. They play for a part of each sunny day. Their game is simple: chase the leader, then become-the-leader when the first leader is tagged. Spectacular aerobatics are the norm. How can they careen among the many branches of the trees at thirty miles an hour? I closed my eyes, thinking about Sharp-shinned Hawks (or Sharpies, as birders call them).

A friend called to report two roadrunners walking up to an accipter (Sharp-shinned and Cooper's Hawk are our two common "accipter" hawks -- or small bird-eating hawks). The two roadrunners circled the hawk several times. From a distance of two feet, they peered intently at the hawk as it ate a sparrow.

Later a homeowner called me, worried about her Corgi and its attraction (as food) to the little raptor. Sharpies are bird hunters. Their presence means that a person is doing a grand job feeding the birds of the neighborhood. The presence of the feeder itself tells the hawk to stop and see if food is on hand. If there is food, the hawk settles down to wait. A chance for a snack will be along eventually.

A circle of feathers on the ground surrounding a fresh gizzard means that a hawk has dined. Our urban forests are not appropriate homes for many predators, but even a human constructed ecosystem needs the checks and balances they can provide. House kitties are inefficient hunters. Feral cats are much better at their craft. They may leave the feet and sometimes the head, but the evidence is usually gulped. An overabundance of feral cats can sometimes diminish the bird population of an urban forest, but Midland’s Animal Control responds immediately if notified about such a situation.

Yesterday, Deborah and I watched a drama presented by a Sharpie and a Roadrunner. The Roadrunner (who we believe to be Lozen’s son) loves to hunt in a grove of sapling soapberries in front of the house. Mo-way possesses a boldness that reminds us of Magoosh. An understory of Aster texana and Ruellia nudiflora struggles in the dry, southwest winds that the grove will someday help to slow. We have repeatedly seen him kicking around in the soapberry leaves that have become trapped by the stiff bare stems of the aster. A lizard must have hidden there not long ago and, remembering that meal, Mo-way now checks the mini-habitat on each of his midday patrols.

Yesterday, the Sharpie arrived first. It swooped in and, after a quick “feather-realignment” wiggle sat motionless, its body arched with alertness. A few minutes later, the Roadrunner came sauntering down the trail. It was “dwaddling” (and yes, I am going to use that “word”. To me, it means meandering along without a care in the world. It cannot be found in a dictionary, but so what? Should language be restricted to what is in the dictionary? Of course not! Humans love to alter language to fit the moment. It is such wonderful play!)

The Sharpie swooped down and Deborah growled in her toughest voice, unheard by the combatants on the other side of the window. “I am going to go out and rescue Mo-way if the Hawk catches him!” I did not doubt her conviction.

The hawk made a deep swoop while the roadrunner took a correspondingly purposeful sidestep, making me think of a bullfighter stepping out of the path of a charging bull at the very last moment. The hawk returned to its perch for a moment before launching itself again. Once more, the roadrunner effortlessly avoided the hawk, without the need to hurry, or to move more than a few inches. This time, the hawk did not return to his tree, but whirled around the Vitexes and Littleleaf Sumacs, looping back to surprise the roadrunner. Mo-way dove under the Agarita, panic in his step.

The Sharpie flew to the Desert Willow fifty feet away. It wiggled on its branch, unzipping and zipping its feathers in antsy, jittery posturing. The roadrunner pecked in the Turk’s Cap litter beneath the Agarita for a minute, and then wandered absentmindly out into the Asters and Ruellia 5 feet away from the hawk. He was perfectly conscious of the hawk, we decided, for he seemed to deliberately pick a direct route to the hawk’s most advantageous attack path. “This is play,” I guessed.

We were not surprised when the hawk again plummeted down, nor was the roadrunner when the hawk seemed to chase it into the pasture. In fact, though he was aware of the undaunted hawk’s “pursuit,” Mo-way seemed to have become bored with the exchange, busying himself with the resumption of his hunting activities in the brush. When Mo-way began to fly after something moving the pasture (a smaller bird, perhaps?) the hawk abandoned the chase.

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The paisano flapped twice and sailed over one of the largepad prickly pears whose predecessors were brought by the cattle drives of the 1930’s. He lit, and began running with all jets burning, darting around a second, a third, and then a fourth prickly pear. The hawk sailed over the roadrunner’s new game, but kept on going to land on the Burr Oak near the pond. The chaparral halted, raising and lifting his tail with exultant, athletic vigor.

Whap! “I think the hawk just spanked the roadrunner with its wing!” This maneuver stopped Deborah from intermittently marveling out loud -- “this is incredible, I can’t believe this, oh my gosh” -- as we moved from window to window to follow the action. Mo-way flew off into the mesquite pasture to the south, away, from the rudeness of the hawk.

I scratched my head. “Hmmmmm… two predators in conflict -- maybe what we just saw was competition for the entire  grove… and what is probably a daily dance between the two birds, half in fun, half-serious. Both must hunt here, since the menu features 70 house finches, 125 English Sparrows, and another 50 birds of 15 different species.”

“I wish they would specialize in English Sparrows exclusively. Have you seen that those dang little potty machines are now roosting between the cabin and the cottage?” Smiling, Deborah proceeded to give me a big hug that affirmed our just-shared vision of holiness. We had been given the chance to see the natural world performing as it does unseen so many zillions of times.

Later in the week, still reflecting on the wonder of what we had seen, Deborah sent me an e-mail from work. “I had been avoiding going outside for quite awhile, dreading to face the effects of my inattention to the garden. The closest I could get to the outside world was to sit near a window, whether I looked out of it or not. The roadrunner has become a personal totem, an emissary sent to bring messages that I need to hear. This one was about not feeling so self-important about my role and to have fun."

“Mother Earth will continue on, cycles and seasons will repeat, whether I participate or not. She wanted me to see this, so that a weight could be lifted and I would be able to dance along with all of nature without feeling that the success or failure of any endeavor depends entirely on what I do or don't do. First, she sent a hawk whose quick movements I caught from the corner of my eye. Then she enticed me with a roadrunner, because she knows I will listen to what the roadrunner says."

“The roadrunner's message was to play even when danger lurks -- to follow through with intent, regardless of distractions. I was awed by the show, as you were, and I am grateful that you made it back into the house in time to watch part of it with me. The most important thing about the performance, for me, was that it got me outside for a wonderful walk in which I was renewed by the knowledge of what has survived my neglect and the assaults of winter.”