Most of us have heard the cry of a hawk, that piercing call that signals the sharp-eyed raptor is high above, circling in search of dinner—a little mouse scurrying for cover or a small grey hare. This spring, a pair nested in nearby redwoods and produced one, if not two, offspring. We heard first, the parents, as they circled in search of nesting material, then, the babies as they waited eagerly, mouths yawning, for food. We heard the crows as they made attempts to venture close to the hawk’s nest and the insistent cries of both parents and babies—protective cries and fearful ones.
For the last month or so, one adolescent hawk has chosen our backyard, and the surrounding neighborhood, as his habitat. This youngster hasn’t yet developed the adult hawk cry, but is still trying to find his voice. It’s a bit annoying at times as he circles and squawks incessantly while whitewashing our blue lawn chairs from high in the oak tree.
This morning, I heard the sound—the distinctive piercing shriek—and thought one of the adults had returned, but as I stood and looked high into the redwoods wondering—the baby’s cries began again and I realized he is growing up, finding his voice. Soon, he will venture into broader territory where he’ll soar over fields, his sharp cry causing tiny rabbits, voles and gophers to seek cover.
But for now, this youngster is nearby. He perches surprisingly close on our neighbor’s rooftop or fence letting me approach and photograph him. One very hot afternoon we were overjoyed to find him standing, speckled wings outstretched, in our backyard sprinkler. He walked slowly in circles, letting the cool water run over his soft brown feathers, in the safety of a suburban backyard, beneath towering redwoods where he was born.
The post A Cry Above first appeared on Carrie Pepper.