White Bird

 A few days ago, while we were in the side yard getting ready for a walk, we heard a flapping  over in our neighbor's redwood tree; looking up we spotted a hawk bouncing on the slender branches not too far overheard, tearing at the inert body of a bird, small white feathers floating up and then twirling down.  We noted the slate-blue wings, the fierce beak and eyes, the rust-and-white needle-thin stripes down the front of a good-sized Cooper's hawk, known for snatching birds in flight. We had heard nothing of the attack; perhaps the prey was dead before it could protest; perhaps it happened much further afield before the hawk found the redwood, certainly the tallest tree around.

We watched as the hawk plucked large white feathers out of the bird's breast, and then began pecking and gulping down the mid-line, a wide red wound opening up, the head aready gone. A faintly acrid smell, with the coppery tinge of blood. There was the ripping and tearing; bits fell out and down, clunking on the ground below. Even while bouncing in the limbs, trying to balance its big wings and the floppy prey, the hawk was efficient, dispatching half the bird it looked like, before it was startled by a dog being called by its owner out in the street, and flapping off, half a white bird dangling in its talons.

During most of this, we stood still, fascinated by this live-action nature movie, the gulping and tearing; the hawk not paying not one whit of attention to us in this most intimate act of consummation.  This was the late afternoon, in long ramp towards dusk, when a trio of mockingbirds came to sit on the power wires close to the house, to sing and trill and in general carrying on, skittering along the fence, jumping about the smaller trees. While the hawk devoured its light-feathered prey, I  noticed one of the mockingbirds sitting still and quiet, pale and grey,  on the nearby power wire, pulled in, trying to look small. It was soon gone. Perhaps the hawk was eating one of the clan that has claimed this patch of trees and gardens its own. 

It was difficult to tell what the prey bird was: white for sure, and possibly a mourning dove for it looked sizeable. But who knows - a dead mockingbird, all flopped out, might look pretty big. I have sorrow for the mockingbird family, but not, it seems for the mourning dove flock, that also flies around this neighborhood. The mourning doves, while gentle and cooing, excited no interest in me. They seem dispensable. The mockingbirds seemed of such good cheer and brought lively interest around the  yard, darting about, singing their impossible songs. They were a bright spot, demanding my gaze.

But the successful attack of the hawk might have changed their dynamic. Since that afternoon, the few mockingbirds who show up are subdued, sending out some low rattles and muted squawks, then melting away; they are not busting out in song, not indulging in trills or exuberance, not scooting about with their tails raised, all frisky. As much as I know hawks have to eat, I miss these perky, melodious little birds. Maybe whether the prey was dove or mockingbird, doesn't matter to the mockingbird - it is smart enough to know, if not now, then sometime soon.