I'll try to keep this brief, telegraphic even.
I've spent more time than I care to throw a stick at on large, sprawling "land-grant" universities in America (Ohio State, Purdue, Penn State). They all have Red-tails hanging about. Why? Lots of big old trees to perch in, wide lawns for easy killing, and loads of squirrels fattened up by the students. The hawks aren't desperate; just smart. I had a colleague who practically cr***** his pants when a Red-tail dropped on an unsuspecting squirrel right in front of him. It made his day.
Of course Red-tails have made Manhattan their home as well, upper east side, nesting on Woody Allen's building no less. Big hit with the birders. Book and movie followed. "Red-tails in Love." Central Park is a veritable smorgasbord, although the rest of the city poses problems.
Couple months ago I watched a Red-tail sitting on a branch above the main drag in State College (Brock's town). The hawk and I were both just hanging out, watching the hubbub of students, traffic, and in my case all those crazy, cobbled together vintage bicycles they love so much in that town. "Steel is real," as they say, and I agree. Cool stuff.
Anyway, the hawk was probably sated on squirrel meat. I was waiting on my wife, who had business at the university. The hawk and I just sat there, nothing to do. The hawk finally got bored and flew off. And then, late as usual, my wife showed up.
So much for the "struggle for survival."
I've seen birds struggle of course. I've watched a fledgling Grackle die because its parents were focused on the other siblings. I did not intervene. I watched it all afternoon and then I saw it die.
I have held a number of birds in my hands as they died, either because they hit my windows or because I saw them get smacked by cars while I was out bicycling. Hold them tight, because at the very end they put up a real fight. One Cedar Waxwing I will never forget. The final effort is to fly.
I once brought a brilliant male Kestral home, recently deceased, hit by a car, in the back pocket of my cycling jersey, just so I could show him to my wife. We both marvelled at the beauty, and then we buried him in the garden. Later that year we had a bumper crop of tomatoes.
It's called life. Not always pretty, not always clean. But it works.
I understand Brock's frustration. His town is a nasty sprawl at this point. I don't like to see it and I live 30 miles away. But as for the hawks, the best you can do is let them get by, same as you.
If you don't like Cooper's Hawks taking your favorites all winter, take down your feeders. It's pointless to start throwing sticks. I've watched a Cooper's Hawk eat a Mourning Dove, start to finish. It takes a lot of work, close to an hour. Nobody has it easy.
Someone hereabouts quotes Gerard Manley Hopkins in their signature. Hopkins is one of my favorites:
"What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet."
Mark
Despite widespread disbelief from following posts, Brock saw fit to dig a deeper hole! :gn:
