"Not Too Sharp, ARE Ya!"

    In New England, we often phrase questions as if they are statements of fact. We say things like "Not too sharp, are ya?"  almost daring the subject to challenge what we already know to be true; there is no doubt in our minds. My father used to say that particular thing to me when I had done something he thought was dumb, which was often. It's usually nice to have company when you do something dumb. Even if you can't totally shift the blame to the other person, it feels a touch less lonely if you can share the corner on stupid. In this case, I shared my lack of sharpness with this Sharp-shinned hawk. "Oh ya! Who's stupid now? He's got the name, not me!"



     Yesterday, I was working on a slide show for a public presentation. I was under a deadline, so of course, the electricity went off and on five times in twenty four hours. This scrambled my computer in a big way making it very frustrating. Deep in concentration, I was chewing my cuticles, swearing at the computer, and bashing keys against my better judgment. At least once, I'm sure the computer spit back at me. I hunched over the keyboard, haggard with a glazed look in my eyes. I was so  absorbed in getting my project done that I hadn't tied my crazy hair back nor had I put on a bra. I don't think I had brushed my teeth, either.
     All of a sudden, there was a thunderous crash into a living room window. It was so loud I thought for a second the glass had broken. The magnitude of the sonic boom was such that I couldn't tell just which window had been struck, the confusion compounded by both of my dogs barking like maniacs. Leaping up on the surge from my last frayed nerve, I ran outside and found this Sharp-shinned hawk on the deck. It was alive, but disabled. It glared at me with one wing askew, its beak open and panting, clear signs of bird stress. It had the same look I did!
     Empathy kicked in and reflexively, I went to reach for it, but stopped myself.  Its hooked beak and talons made me think better of it. I had to act quickly before the dogs showed up or the poor bird became hypothermic. It was about forty degrees out and the wind was blowing, but I pulled my shirt off for the hawk. Having watched enough shows on falconry, I knew to cover up its head. The cold wind whipped my hair into a cyclonic disaster and reminded me that my amply bosomed self was totally exposed out in the yard, so in I came with my feathered friend in a bundle. My hands were shaking. Mind racing, I wondered aloud if I had a box somewhere to put it in. "Where would I have put that phone number for the avian rescue people," I asked myself.
     My address book was on the dining room table, so I laid the hawk down and reached for it. Suddenly, the Sharpie extricated itself from my shirt and zoomed like a rocket into the living room. "Oh shit!" I screamed dashing in pursuit, leaving my shirt behind. The commotion incited the dogs to start a snarling fight provoking more screaming and yelling from me. My living room is thirty-two by thirty-two feet wide, but not adequate as an aviary for a bird with a two foot wing span, I can assure you. Grabbing a towel from the nearest bathroom, I booted the dogs out of the room, then closed the doors. Towel in hand, I scanned the upward bound perches like the ceiling fan and chandelier, but no angry hawk. "Where the hell could it be........." my eyes roamed the room. And there is was, perched atop the open lid of my laptop computer.
    I tossed the towel over the bird praying it did not poop on my keyboard which would have served me right, and took it outside. If it had not flown away immediately, I would have then gone looking for a suitable container and called avian rescue. Thankfully, it swooped away to the branch of the tree where it's perched in these photos. It took a minute to collect itself, just long enough for me to grab my camera for these shots. I'm hoping that it is okay out there. I'm sure it's better off than with me, no matter how kind my intentions. When it came to the Sharp-shinned, I was, as my father would have said, "Not too sharp." Now, where did I put my shirt?
 
(By the way, I think the hawk was chasing a Blue Jay when it struck the window, which wasn't too bright. It did fix whatever was ailing my computer, though. Remember, it is unlawful to possess hawks or their parts. All wild birds in Maine are protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918 (MBTA). If you need help to rescue a bird, click here on AVIAN HAVEN. Let the professionals handle it. It's better for the bird and better for you, too. You could go to jail.)

Last Call - Geese Going

Since I was a little kid, I've had a one sided love affair with Canada geese. I know a lot of people who hate them because they are prolific poop machines. They quickly foul up small ponds and shore fronts and turn golf courses into land mine fields. Each goose lays a breakfast-link size roll of dark green doo amounting to one to three pounds a day. The droppings carry bacteria harmful to humans, so keep your hands out of your mouth. Additionally, the droppings are very slippery. Stepping on it can result in a broken ankle and you know where you'd be falling if that happened. Things would no doubt, go from bad to worse. Populations of the Canadas are growing enormously, too. They are protected under the 1918 Migratory Bird Treaty Act (MBTA), so it's a felony to kill them. If they take a shine to your golf course, you're cooked, not your goose. All you can do is drive your golf cart around and scream and yell. Keep in mind when you do that, that when geese are alarmed, guess what? They poop. Many flocks of them no longer hede the urge to migrate, either. Here in Totman Cove resides a flock that now is about fifty strong, nearly double that of a year ago. There is open water here all winter, so they stay. I still think of them as harbingers of spring, though. I listen, as my father taught me to do when I was young, for their calls and think, "Ah, spring at last!" There is still magic in hearing them far above me, often in spring fog which seems to hold their sound. And in the fall, I feel sad when I see the skiens  rippling across the sky headed south. A V-ribbon undulating away in advance of snow makes me hunch my head into the neck of my jacket and shiver, even if it's not yet cold. These geese weren't flying out of town, though. They were just headed to the local golf course.

Last Call - Final Call, Gothic Oven Bird

The fall migration of birds has barely begun and already, two Oven Birds have committed suicide on my living room windows. I only see them in the fall and only after they've tried flying through a window. I don't know what possesses them. I have tried to prevent this with hanging plants and branches nailed to the house in front of the windows. I also have those tacky decals on the glass meant to deter birds, but to no avail. It breaks my heart to find them broken on the ground like this one. Though dead, they are, nonetheless breathtakingly beautiful. To me, they are no less beautiful than this Yellow warbler, another seasonal migrant here. They make almost biblical subjects to photograph. However, it is against the law to keep them, or even possess them, according to the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918. The MBTA was enacted to stop over-hunting of many birds which was resulting in decimation
of their populations. A loop hole closure in the law says that migratory birds on the list can not even be possessed dead. This is intended to stop a perpetrator that claims "Well, geez Officer, I found the Dodo Bird dead on the side of the road. I didn't kill it, honest." Where upon, the Officer says "Ya well, pal, you're the Dodo Bird and you're comin' with me!" Thus, someone such as myself (neither a Dodo nor in possession of one) who does not have some sort of license must either take a bird to someone who does (and hope they don't get busted while transporting said bird) or toss it onto the compost pile. To unceremoniously fling a thing of such gentle beauty as if tainted garbage is sacrilege. I'm not sure it's even legal for me to photograph them, which to me is to honor them. But rest assured, after I do, I get rid of them. Swear on a stack I do.


For more information on the MBTA of 1918, see these links:

http://www.fws.gov/laws/lawsdigest/migtrea.html
http://en.wikipedia.org wiki/Migratory_Bird_Treaty_Act_of_1918