By M. KATHY RAINS
“Where are the birds?” I cried, witnessing an expanse of eerily silent, bare limbs and lawn.
Was the surrounding canopy so rich in insects, seeds and fruits that birds spurned my yard? Had birds become ill? Had our house exterminator ventured too far? Cats?
Then, one morning, on an olive branch, I saw it—a sharp-shinned hawk, a small wintering raptor fondly called a sharpie—half-veiled by leaves, plucking, tearing and devouring a sparrow morsel-by-morsel, frequently glancing up, then continuing its chore. The sharpie specializes in eating small birds.
It returned for a morning or two. Then it patrolled from across the street. During the Great Backyard Bird Count, zooming in on a presumed mockingbird alighting in our olive tree, I startled to see the dark, hooked beak of this adroit killer tucked into the greenery. It vanished like smoke.
This November, a chattering cat alerted me to a presumed dove feeding in the grass, until I saw its severe countenance. The sharpie, or one of its fellows, had returned to productive hunting grounds, as migrating hawks are wont to do. For thirty minutes, on a low branch, it devoured its victim. Then, a fast, dark shape and a whoosh of sparrows heralded its afternoon hunt.
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