I think I am a murderer. I try not to be. I don’t want to be. But when I walked into my back yard last week, I saw the remains of one of my beloved. The soft gray feathers of a mourning dove were scattered among the blades of glass. At a closer look, I saw that an entire tuft of feathers had been shredded out. If I am not a murderer, then I must be an accomplice. The predator is the Cooper’s Hawk around here. He sits in the tops of trees or circles high in the sky looking for the plump gentle birds and swoops down even as they’re flirting with each other.
I feel like a murderer because I can’t help feeding my feathered friends. In fact, they insist that I do. I can’t walk out of the house without a goldfinch darting in close to my head or a song sparrow throwing back his head and announcing to the world that the seed lady has come outside. Ever since I started feeding the birds a few years ago, they’ve come to expect it. But I don’t mind. I can’t live without them.
That’s why it hurts when I see evidence of a Cooper’s Hawk lunch. As my husband says, I suppose the hawk would have munched down on the doves somewhere in the neighborhood anyway. At least, the plump bird was enjoying a favorite meal alongside his life-long mate when the hawk clutched it from above.
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I make sure the birds have plenty of trees and brush to dart into for shelter when hawks or crows come in for their dastardly visit. I do the best I can. I go to Winona Sollock at the Mission Trails Regional Park for advice. But even she can’t predict for me how and when trouble will come. So I guess I’m in good company. We moan and groan, even laugh together and get back to feeding our feathered friends.
