Little hawk

I shuddered when I heard it—a hard thump, a body striking glass.

A mourning dove perched on the railing out the south window, pink and gray and puffed up. At first, I thought this must be the friend who had struck the window, and I breathed out in relief. It had survived.

Then I stepped to the other side and looked toward the west.

The dove’s look of google-eyed triumph suddenly made sense. A hawk lay on the deck, on its back. Its yellow talons curled and uncurled; its barred chest feathers shivered as it panted.

I did what any self-respecting 30-something would do in this situation. I ran to get my mom. “MOM! A HAWK hit the window!”

For context, my mom is a naturalist (I am not). Also for context, having a hawk hit your window is really unusual. Songbirds more commonly suffer such accidents—as they try to evade hawks!

Armed with a paper-towel-lined box and gloves, we tiptoed out onto the deck. (The mourning dove fluttered away, no doubt gloating. It had taken out its predator!) The little hawk was so stunned that it hardly resisted as my mom gently flipped it over and placed it into the box. She stroked its slate-blue back lightly with her knuckles. “It’s okay, little hawk,” she said. “We love you, little hawk.”

But neither of us really thought it would be ok. The hawk lay listlessly in the box—upright, now, but that was about it. We lightly taped the box and put it by the door. We slipped inside, our hearts heavy.

My mom went back to the meeting I’d dragged her out of, and I paced around. What did you do with a dead hawk? I wondered. Should I bury it somewhere? Give it to my naturalist bestie?

Of course, there was a chance that it might survive. So I said some prayers, too.

I went back out a little while later, braced for the worst. Strangely, I did not see the hawk through the large holes in the box. I had expected to find it still curled up there, the breath perhaps departed from its body, its soul gone wherever hawk souls go. Maybe it had curled up against the side of the box so I couldn’t see it.

Then I came around the front. A puff of grayish feathers peeked out of a hole. A bright yellow eye fixed on me.

Spot the hawk

“Oh!” I said. “You’re alive!”

The yellow eye widened. I took the most tentative, tiniest step forward.

The hawk fluttered to get away from me, rattling the box. “Ahh!” I exclaimed. The hawk probably was saying “Ahh!” too.¹

I tiptoed back into the house—it seemed too soon to release the little hawk—and so began our little dance of gazing on each other. I couldn’t see into the box from inside the house, so I had to step outside to check on the hawk.

The next time I went out, the yellow eye was fixed out a hole not at the front of the box, but facing the door—and me.

“Hi,” I said softly. “How are you feeling?” (If it was watching, the mourning dove was probably ready for me to crash into a window, too.)

Eventually, as lavender tinged the sky, it seemed time to release the little hawk. My mom returned to lift the bird from its box. It lumbered from her hands, gliding awkwardly to the ground below the deck.

“Oh no,” I said, but there was nothing to be done. We wouldn’t be able to get the hawk back into the box. All I could do was watch it and hope that it would find the wherewithal to fly away. I know that some people say most birds that hit windows die of their injuries later, but at least the little hawk could have this—the dignity of dying in nature, in the place where it belongs. And perhaps it would live to terrorize more doves and songbirds.

Again, I couldn’t see it from inside the house, so I had to tiptoe onto the deck to check on it. The first time I did this, it was spun around, watching me. Its eyes looked dark from below, and steady. It did not look away as I gazed down at it. I didn’t want to disturb it, so I only gazed back for a moment.

This happened perhaps three times: me pattering softly onto the deck, the hawk staring unblinking at me.

Then, the last time, I took one tiny extra step farther.

The hawk turned from me and it gathered itself. It flew—low at first, just touching the tips of the marsh grass. Then it lifted up, over the wetland, past the silver maple. It flew away along the river, and was gone.

Written with apologies to all mourning doves.

1. I know, I know you’re not supposed to anthropomorphize animals. But seriously. They are also full of their own emotional intelligence, and I think surprise can be conveyed pretty clearly species-to-species.