You gave me a good chuckle by calling accipiters high-strung. My first thought was “You got that right!” “Rabidly antisocial” also seems a nice way to describe them. The biggest piece of the puzzle in this case is that the birds live in an urban park where people are always around, hence they’ve developed a minor acclimation to human presence which translates into a slightly subdued apprehension of us.

I’ve been around the Cooper’s hawk parents for about ten years. I’ve made a point of approaching them when I can, always without threat or commotion, and I’ve spent time just being near them without showing interest. That’s helped quite a bit. (Interestingly, the male remains flighty while the female seems partially at ease with me. I can get close to both depending on what else is happening, yet she seems less likely to panic.)

Trouble is the one exception out of this year’s three juveniles. The other two, Scruffy and Silence, never showed tolerance for people. That never surprised me since they are young without the longstanding experience of their parents. Trouble, on the other hand, seems intent on facing down the world at large, even people, though the bird still avoids humans most of the time. I was shocked when it landed so near me and stared intently at me. The encounter lasted only about five or six seconds before the bird slowly turned and swept out of the tree, but it lasted a lot longer than I thought possible. I’ve been staying close to them since they fledged, so I wonder if that created at least a minor familiarity…

I love the wren story! Very cool. And I wholeheartedly agree: nature continually surprises me with such encounters. I’ve learned after decades of observation that nothing should be assumed; nature can always reveal a new depth we never expected.

This is a remarkable story, beautifully told!

Clive, I enjoyed your wren tale, too!

But today I thought of you when I had another bird-encounter-of-the-closest-kind. Birds frequently fly into the house when the doors are open. They usually find their way out again or if in trouble, I catch and release them into the garden. Suddenly a wren whirred through the kitchen in a state of panic. It plummeted into the window and tried to escape through the glass. As I approached it flew up to the ceiling and landed on the far side of the room on the plate rack running high along one wall. With no real hope of catching it in such an open position, I stood on a chair and gently raised my hand to take it. To my astonishment as my hand drew level it hopped onto my index finger and perched there. I barely breathed. Very slowly I climbed down from the chair. Still it perched. And it continued to perch calmly while I walked through the house and out into the garden, up the steps to the rose terrace and on into the orchard. There I rested my hand on top of a high hedge, and finally the tiny bird flew away. Nature never fails to bring me up short. Encounters like these leave one feeling rather strange. Touched and perplexed.