Reflections - The Red-Tail Mystery

Bird's-Foot Trefoil

The red-tailed hawk gave me clues, but I didn’t connect them until after he deadened my hopes. 

The hawk left his first clue the morning of June 19. 

Because my husband needed to write a flier about foods that remove lead from children’s bodies, I left Spence at his computer and power-walked under the trees shading West Creek Road. Gravel crunched under my feet. On the neighbor’s berm, the first bird’s-foot trefoil of the season bloomed and slowed my pace.

A whoosh-thrash-swoosh sounded by our apple trees behind me.

Pivoting, I gawked.

A red-tailed hawk flapped broad wings and spread crimson tail feathers. In retrospect, I guessed the hawk was male because of his size—closer to owl size than eagle size. Flying three feet above Spence’s tractor path, the hawk perched on the log pile at the end of the south garden. He folded his wings against his body.  

I forced myself to close my mouth before a punkie flew inside. Maybe the hawk would consume the chipmunk that nibbled my everbearing strawberries.

The next clue came the following morning.

With Spence beside me, I panted up Creek Road hill, swatted deer flies off his back coming down, then rounded the intersection of Creek and West Creek. 

A bird sat in the middle of the dirt road fifty yards away. No grabbing nor gobbling. The bird just sat.

Spence squinted. “It could be an owl. It’s large. Or a hawk.”

“Why would an owl be out in the middle of the day?” I regretted not lugging my camera so I could observe the bird through the zoom lens. “And why would a hawk sit in the middle of the road?”

The bird flapped broad wings, spread a crimson tail, and disappeared into the woods. 

We grinned at each other and said in unison, “Red-tail.”

Maybe the hawk would devour the squirrel that gnawed on our house in an attempt to nest in the logs.

Two days later, Spence got the third clue before me.

Preparing for his first meeting in Cleveland since March 12, he walked through the north garden to the garage. 

I rinsed egg shells, for a tomato plant supplement, and set them on the kitchen window sill to dry.

The tractor rumbled out of the garage basement. Spence had loaded folding chairs in the bucket for an outdoor meeting at Luke Easter Park. The tractor rumbled around the garage, chairs clanged onto the truck bed, and Spence returned. “Call your next blog ‘Adopted by a Red-Tail.’”

“What are you talking about?”

“The hawk’s perched on the woodshed. He didn’t move when I walked past him or drove the tractor near.”

I looked through the kitchen window. “I don’t see him, but I can’t see the front of the shed. A blue spruce is in the way.”

Spence stepped onto the porch then stuck his head inside. “The hawk’s still there. Get your camera.” Spence closed the door, locked me in, and left for Cleveland.

Would the hawk still be three if I walked out? Animals had a way of vamoosing when I appeared with a camera. Grabbing it, I walked to the porch. 

Red—I might as well give the hawk a name since he adopted us—perched on the woodshed roof and gazed into the garden. 

I tiptoed across the porch and down the steps. Hoping not to disturb Red, I walked along the path on the other side of the garden. When I reached the spot opposite the woodshed, Red stared at me. I stared at Red. 

Red-Tailed Hawk

Since he didn’t move, I raised the camera and pressed the shutter release button. Click. Step, click. Step, click. Step, click. Edging closer and closer, I congratulated myself on finding another animal—besides a wood turtle and an opossum—that I could photograph. 

Red’s hooked beak and sharp talons halted my progress. Red may not have minded if I got closer, but I did. Besides, I had plenty of photos. Resting the camera on my chest, I feasted my eyes on the noble creature.

Red could scarf up voles that burrowed into my blueberry cages and snakes that wriggled across garden paths. Red could shriek kee-eeeee-arr when he circled above the field. And maybe he’d raise a family in a Wells Wood treetop next spring.

Red’s last clue deadened my hopes but saved me from breaking the law.

Two nights after I named Red, we had a thunderstorm that broke an eighteen day dry spell. The next morning, Spence returned from his garden walk-around with drooping shoulders and an ashen complexion. “Red’s dead.”

“What do you mean?” Stupid question. I knew what the words meant but wanted to deny them—the first stage of grief.

“Red’s on the ground near the woodshed." Spence adjusted his tractor cap. “It must have just happened. The body’s intact.”

I reached for Spence’s hand. “Will you go with me? I want to see him.”

Walking beside Spence, I finally understood Red’s clues.

Hawks soar high in the sky. Red flapped low to the ground.

Hawks perch on telephone poles or in treetops. Red sat on West Creek Road.

Hawks fly when people approach. Red watched Spence and I approach him.

Red had been dying. He’d adopted Wells Wood for a peaceful place to rest.

When we reached Red, I let go of Spence’s hand and stood in silence to honor the hawk that had honored us with his presence.

Red lay on his side.

Not a single fly hovered.

His dark brown back feathers and rich red tail feathers glistened as if he’d preened himself moments before.

My fingers itched to pluck one of the vibrant feathers for a keepsake, but Red’s majesty prevented me. I couldn’t defile him, and memories of him would never die. “Will you move him to the woods?” 

Spence rubbed my arm. “When you go inside.”

Inside I turned on the laptop, searched the internet for red-tailed hawk feathers, and gasped. Because women adorned their hats with feathers in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Congress passed the Migratory Bird Act—no collecting feathers whether you killed the bird or found the feather on the ground.

I visualized Spence easing Red onto a shovel, carrying him into the woods, and laying him among Christmas ferns.

Red will nourish forest creatures.

Death in nature renews life.

Red-Tailed Hawk