Harris hawk and the intruder

Harris Hawk drawing in progress by Beth Surdut

Stuart Udall wrote, “Get to know the land and the messages it whispers to those willing to listen.”

No whispers here, the songbirds and doves silent.

Fierce, the Harris hawk glared at me with cantaloupe colored eyes.

Big. Intent. Used to winning, I could tell. Unsettling.

Hissed at me as it flew from my patio to a high branch of an acacia tree to scold me for all the neighboring animals to hear.

Lush russet legs, substantial talons and a beak that could have snatched the cat away.

The hawk returned the next afternoon, “anh, anh, anh” as it flew overhead.

The cat, no fool, crouched by the kitchen door, blue eyes watching through the screen.

A baby Anna’s hummingbird, old enough to flash crimson as it moved its head, young enough to be fluff, allowed me to stand near and watch it watch me.

The neighbors say, “The animals seem to find you.”

I think not. I am the intruder moved into their territory.

Speaking of territory, you are welcome in mine @www.bethsurdut.com
Post Script: Hawk returned on the third day, perching on a telephone pole, his presence dominating  for only a moment before two mockingbirds gave him what-for, screeching, scolding, pecking at his head and  chasing him across the sky. "Annhh, annhhh, annnh, " I called as his small but mighty escorts took the lead and the rear, giving  Hawk no chance to turn back.

Choose your audience carefully

The  Regal Horned Lizard, pointed and crenellated, stubby and shy, was so intent on watching a grasshopper on my front  stoop that  neither one moved when I appeared.
Patience, such patience, I thought as I stood next to the lizard, admiring him with my camera.
Grasshopper did not move.
My camera snapped at them.
Lizard glanced at me, then back to Grasshopper.
Snap, went the jaws my camera.
Lizard did not twitch. Grasshopper held his ground.
So smart, I thought. Grasshopper knows the speed of a lizard.
Playing it  safe, I thought.
Oh, the wisdom of the wild.

I shifted my stance and Lizard lost his focus,
scuttled into the blue agave whose
spines would protect him from me.
Grasshopper did not move.
Closer inspection allowed.
Surely, Grasshopper would leap now.
But it is hard to leave when one leg is stuck to the  pavement
Impossible to leave when
you are desiccated
preserved
perfect, but dead.

The Regal Horned Lizard (horned toad, Tumamoc in the language of Tohono Oodham)
and I, with more names than I shall list,
had patiently stalked a dead grasshopper.

One foot stuck in place can
impede your progress
You could stay there, looking perfect
until you die, an object of curiosity
and eventually
Someone might notice that
you haven't moved and
the living would move on.

There is a video crawling round the web
the courtship dance of a male
peacock spider, so named
for his brilliant display.
Such a dance he does!
Choreographed as if for Vegas
His legs, like arms, kicking
like a chorus girl
waggling her sequined behind
On and on he goes
Giving his all
"Look at me! Notice me! Pick me!"
But she is silent
unmoving
Dead, like the grasshopper.

Take notice who you dance for
Choose your audience carefully.

Speaking of audiences, get a front row seat @www.bethsurdut.com