She is the goddess of the hunt.  She is the goddess of fertility and childbirth.  She is the goddess of the forests and hills.  She is Artemis.  And she is known to me.

Like Baket the female Cooper’s hawk (Accipiter cooperii) who lives and nests close by, Artemis, a female red-shouldered hawk (Buteo lineatus), has lived near my home for some time.  She has raised children in the woods around Dixon Branch for at least the past five years.

She and her male companion are no strangers to love.

Though I have watched them for many years, they always have nested in dense woodlands that surround the Sunset Bay confluence at White Rock Lake, and more often than not their nest hid in the treetops of one of the many small islands that remain inaccessible to all but winged visitors.

Yet several weeks ago I sent a missive to a few friends letting them know both Artemis and her mate had expanded their territorial display to areas further south of their normal range.  In addition, I had watched them investigating several large trees outside the woods that historically had cloaked their nest.  I felt perhaps the two raptors might move into the open—relatively speaking—and that perhaps careful observers might have a chance to watch them nest and raise young.

Then yesterday under a sky dark with heavy clouds, I found it.  As you can see, she was settled in the nest while her mate stood beside her.  Both had just arrived with twigs to add to their nursery.  And they did in fact choose a tree outside the near impenetrable forest.

They remain within their territory, yes, but they now offer me an opportunity which has never been offered before.  All things being equal, the location and height of the nest indicate a distinct possibility to watch them rear young.

When the Cooper’s hawk triplets made their first appearance, I didn’t realize how much fun it would be getting to know them during their childhood.  I also didn’t realize how much I would be affected when they started moving away to find their own territories.  White Rock Lake, as far as accipiters go, belongs to their parents, so I knew all along the triplets would eventually leave, yet spending most of the year together let me know them as more than just predators, more than just raptors.  They became individuals, unique personalities who were as recognizable as my own face, each a distinct being with habits and ways shared by no other.

Because the threesome lived a few steps from my door, they filled my observational time and caused me to miss some of the other children born and raised at the lake.  For you see, at least five breeding pairs of hawks nest within the 2,100 acres/850 hectares of this park: the Cooper’s hawks nesting near my home, a pair of red-shouldered hawks nesting in the woods of the old fish hatchery, a pair of red-tailed hawks nesting in the woods at Boyscout Hill, a pair of red-tailed hawks nesting on the arboretum grounds, and a pair of red-shouldered hawks nesting in the woods around Dixon Branch.^[1]

You might remember that last pair, the red-shouldered hawks (Buteo lineatus) nesting around Dixon Branch.  They offered a spectacular public display of affection in February.  I might add they repeated that display several times.  And afterward I expected to see the usual brooding and rearing activities followed by the eventual appearance of one or more juveniles.  I unfortunately spent all my raptor babysitting time with the Cooper’s kids, hence I failed to track down and monitor the red-shouldered nest built not too far from my home.  I saw the parents regularly, of course, but never the offspring.  At least not until now.^[2]

Perhaps a week ago when I stepped outside early in the morning, a great avian raucous filled the air.  Crows, titmice, towhees, mockingbirds and a few wrens made such a fuss that I ran inside, grabbed the camera and dashed to the woodland edge to see what was happening.^[3]  I could only view the target of their ire through a tiny opening in the trees.  Still, I had no problem identifying what had the birds so upset: a juvenile red-shouldered hawk.  I snapped a photo before making the five-minute run around the trees to a spot on the floodplain where I hoped to have a better view.  The entire scene disbanded while I traveled, and only the sound of mobbing crows moving in the opposite direction told me what I feared: the hawk and its pursuers had gone the other way.  As my luck would have it, I would have been better served had I remained in my original spot since that’s where the birds went.  Oh well…

Then just two days later on a very gloomy, very cloudy morning, I meandered along the treeline around Dixon Branch and stopped cold when I noticed something perched in a low branch of a massive cottonwood tree.  I at first thought it an owl since I could only see it from behind and its colors played in the browns of the woods that surrounded it.  One shadow against another from my position, so I circled at distance until I could see a profile view.  Suddenly I felt tremendous joy thinking somehow I was making up for lost time.

I moved as a snail might move, slowly and cautiously, and I never stared directly at the young hawk.  I used sideways glances and peripheral vision, and I let the camera shield my face as much as possible so the hawk could not see my eyes.  Mostly it looked elsewhere with a few occasional glances in my direction.  Yet it didn’t leave even as I drew myself beneath the same tree.

Then in came the crows, five of them, and though they had no interest in the hawk (I don’t think they knew it was there), the juvenile still took flight and vanished into the woods.  I followed it with my eyes and saw it land on another low branch not too far inside the forest.  So off I went again.

I found the one nearby opening that gave me some kind of view of the bird, albeit not a clear one.  After capturing a few more images, I left the raptor in peace.  Just seeing it, especially seeing it close by, left me feeling great joy at the continued success of our local hawks.  And it left me feeling that perhaps I hadn’t failed to enjoy more than the Cooper’s triplets, that perhaps in being surrogate parent to them I had simply waited later in the year to find more of the local children.

Now I’m just hoping for an opportunity to photograph this youngster when there’s better light and fewer obstacles…

— — — — — — — — — —

Notes:

[1] Additional raptor breeding pairs might reside at the lake.  Those I mentioned represent the five distinct pairs I have thus far identified, though a single person covering such a large area hardly can be certain of exact numbers.  Other accipiters or even falcons might nest here, and owls might nest here (owls definitely roost here); however, I doubt other buteos nest here given four resident pairs who occupy strategic territories around the park’s perimeter.

[2] Given the time of year, I at first suspected this to be a winter migrant.  Since our first encounter, though, I have seen it repeatedly—and I have seen the adult red-shouldered hawks tolerating it within their territory, even within the very woods where they nest.  The two pairs of red-shoulders leave each other alone only so long as each pair remains on its respective side of the lake.  The same is true with the red-tailed hawks.  In light of this usual détente by distance, the adults tolerating this juvenile within their territory of many years leads me to believe it must be their offspring.

[3] The location of the bird mob and the number of species involved made me think that perhaps the bobcat was around.  As it was just after dawn and sufficient light existed to get at least one or two photos, I hoped that was the case as the feline has so far expertly outwitted my attempts to get a few pictures.

I recently said to nathalie with an h, “It’s that time of year.”  I was referring to many forms of life that use the warming weather to narrow their focus on that one thing that ensures survival: procreation.

She responded, “I didn’t know that.”

Being European, devilishly pretty, linguistically blessed and accented to a level that draws men in like flies to honey, and exceptionally sexy, she can play the dumb blonde card and get away with it.

We her friends know better.

But I digress…

Truth be told, different species do different things, yet the most visible efforts to protect a genetic lineage begin at winter’s end.

I mentioned that to her as I spoke of some recent images I captured.

It all began innocently enough…

High in the treetops came the shrill, powerful call of a female red-shouldered hawk (Buteo lineatus).

From my perspective, she might as well have been on the moon for the distance and obstacles resting between us.  Still, I know this species and I know that cry: either a challenger was nearby or one mate was calling to the other.  In either case, I considered it wise to snap some pictures.

Within moments another hawk swept in over the trees and landed near the first.

So they knew each other.  I wondered if they were mates.

I suddenly had a flashback to “My Cousin Vinny” as Marisa Tomei stands there smacking her foot on the ground in rhythm with her words as she says: “Well I hate to bring it up because I know you’ve got enough pressure on you already. But, we agreed to get married…  Meanwhile, TEN YEARS LATER, my niece, the daughter of my sister is getting married.  My biological clock is TICKING LIKE THIS…”

Something about that scene coupled with the first hawk’s adamant screaming told me what to expect.

It took about five seconds for my pondering to become solidified in truth.

The male who landed on the same branch promptly hopped-cum-flew to a new position that made everything clear: she had been calling for him; they were mates; and it was time for a little “doing the nasty” right there for all the world to see, right there perched high in a tree on a sunny day with the commotion viewable by anyone, and all despite naked limbs jostling to block the view.

I almost felt intrusive for taking photographs of the whole ordeal.

Almost.

Although I laughed at the porno extravagance: her screaming “Yes!  Yes!  Yes!” while he smacked her rump and looked all too serious.  Suddenly a great deal of humanity’s silliness made sense.

One thing that’s beautiful—seriously—about nature is that it’s in your face with splendor and candor, the beauty of the universe without all the anthropocentric nonsense we humans like to thrust upon it.

Shame for invading their private moment?  That faded before it became apparent.

As did the intimate moment.

His business tended to, the male lit a cigarette, rolled over and climbed out of bed.  He had his jeans on and was out the door before I realized he was done.

I’m sure the female felt the same way.

She leaped to another branch with a sudden interest in looking casual and calm, a collected and cool woman not so interested in appearances as in addressing the perpetual tick of the clock only she could hear.

You should have seen her throw her hair back with that dismissive way that brushes even the most serious suitor out the door…

And him?

Oh, he smoked his cigarette as he did his little aerial victory dance right above the trees.  He circled and circled, low at first, then slowly climbed into the blue heavens.

Meanwhile, she did her nails and put on her makeup.

I had to wonder about all that hurrying he did this time, and then to run out the front door without even buttoning his shirt first, as though he had to rush home and wash his hair.

Somehow I figured she’d forgive him, let him slip beneath the covers, kiss him on the cheek and welcome him into her boudoir without hesitation—as many times as necessary to get the job done, I mean, then she’d kick him to the curb and make him mow the yard, clean the house, feed the kids, and fix the roof when it started leaking.

As for Nathalie: Yes.  Uh-huh.  You know you like it.  That’s right.  Who’s your daddy?

I have to go wash my hair now…