There's something about hawks that I admire. Maybe it's the way they hold themselves so tall and erect, as if they know their own power. Or the way they coast on an air current, circling through the sky as if they have nothing better to do than enjoy the ride. It excites me to see them. I know they prey on smaller birds (birds I also admire), but as long as I don't witness it, I can pretend that they feed only on rodents and reptiles.
The other day as I ate lunch in my den near the glass storm door that opens to the patio, I saw a burst of activity in my peripheral vision. I looked up just in time to see a hawk swoop down into the corner of the patio and pluck a tasty brown morsel of some species out from under the drainpipe. I know that the eyesight of a hawk is fabled to be superb, but how in the world could it spot something small enough to hide under a drainpipe in the corner of a patio? And why was it even looking there in the first place?
Not only that, but a chair was pulled out about four feet from the drainpipe, blocking any direct flight path. The hawk must have helicoptered into that narrow space. When it left, it flew almost straight up, clutching its little prize in its right talon. It turned its head as it rose and spotted me on the other side of the glass.
I swear to you that the hawk gave me a dirty look: a full-face, mind-your-own-business glare. You may think I'm making that up, but I'm not. I'll admit I don't know all that much about hawks, but I certainly know a dirty look when I see one.