The Red-Tailed Hawk

I was job hunting at the campus today, taking advantage of the quiet, disused classrooms of the late afternoon in summer term, and the air conditioning, with my laptop and my music.

I was walking around the campus after a couple of hours of work when the falcon flew by me. She passed only a foot or two from my left shoulder and crossed in front of me to land on the green, a huge bird larger than a raven, looking about the size of a cat... but lighter, no doubt; a lot of that visual size is feathers.

I came closer and watched her (male hawks are smaller, so it was almost certainly a her, because she was huge). She stood on the lawn, looking in every direction, checking her surroundings cautiously, and walking slowly. She seemed aware, but not alarmed, as I came closer and then eventually stopped when I could see her comfortably. A great bird; hooked beak; bright, cunning eyes; huge wings, a faded grey-brown with gentle variation; long, distinct fan of a tail, tawny coloured and ended with a thin black stripe and white tips. Having done some research at home, I understand she must have been a red-tailed hawk, possibly a Krider's or Harlan's hawk, with a light, spotted chest and face.

Her quarry was a small groundhog. It stared at her; she did not stare at it, but kept looking around her, alert for dangers. She often looked at me. The groundhog made its effort to back away. Trundling backwards, it was slow and awkward. Several times over the groundhog stopped, perhaps to rest, perhaps to encourage the hawk to forget it was there. She flared her wings at it while walking forward, making her visual presence huge and imposing, coming on like a living wall of talons and feathers, and several times she jumped at it with a single beat of her wings, patiently, testing.

The way it ended was that the groundhog backed into a wall; the corner bricks of a garden, not high, but twice the height of the animal. It could certainly have climbed the barrier, but it would have had to turn its back to do it. The hawk lunged, the groundhog hissed and counter-attacked, threatening to bite her talons. She drew back, but lunged again and struck, her broad wings hiding the groundhog from my view. I heard it scream quietly. She must have struck well, because she did not draw back and strike again, but only clutched it tightly until it was dead.

She raked it with her claws some time after it had stopped moving, and (always looking around her) adjusted her grip and flapped and stood on it; adjusted her grip again, and flew a short distance. The groundhog must understandably have been heavy, it looked a third of her own size. She stopped and rested in the garden, bit at the groundhog, and waited a while before flying another short distance onto another area of lawn.

At about that time, a visitor to the college campus greeted me and asked for directions finding something. While I was talking to him, the hawk flew away and I did not see where she went.

I occured to me that I could have run in and scared away the hawk, if I had wanted to; I could have rescued the groundhog, or taken the kill from her. I doubt she would have the audacity to fight something so much bigger than she was. It occured to me that I could probably eat a groundhog, although I have no idea how to skin and butcher wild beasts like this in order to eat them. Although I considered this, I only watched her, in quiet reverence and awe for the grace and the violence of the hunt.

I don't believe I've ever witnessed a wild animal hunting and killing another wild animal. There was something utterly beautiful to it, and perhaps part of that was the mercy of its brevity, and certainly part of it was the simple necessity of it to the hawk. Or perhaps it is largely that I was simply entranced by her. Watching her watch me, and the world around her, and hunt and claim the groundhog with what I can only describe as cool, competent professionalism, confidence and patience in every move, felt a little like falling in love.

I did a little bit of searching into falconry. I may want to consider seeking an opportunity to work with these birds somehow in the future.