Murder on the bridge

The massive red-shouldered hawk was perched calmly on the broad rails of the wooden bridge that crosses the creek at GardenSpirit. I watched in fascination as a squirrel darted across the bridge and several small birds swooped in to land on the new bird feeders I had erected in the back yard.

There was something wrong. Didn't those little creatures understand the danger posed by the hawk? Get out of there now! I took a closer look.

The hawk was craning its neck down between its feet, pulling out strings of ... my fascination turned to horror ... fresh meat. No wonder the woodland creatures were carefree - the hawk had selected another victim. They were safe. For now.

I couldn't pull myself away from the scene, wished I had my telephoto camera or at least a pair of binoculars. What was the bird eating?

As the hawk stepped up and down on its prey, holding it firmly as it stripped the flesh from the poor animal, I caught a glimpse of a long skinny tail, writhing in protest. With a shudder, I realized that the hawk's prey was still alive, being tortured to death by the sharp, highly effective beak and talons.

"Oh, get it over with," I muttered. "Kill it and put it out of its misery." I cannot stand to see animals suffer, or human beings for that matter. Yet, I was transfixed by the hawk's nonchalant and primal call to survive. There was no guilt in the kill; the body of the prey would nourish the body of the captor.

I was acutely aware of the proximity of the hawk's vicious meal to my own refrigerator, stocked with sanitized versions of the hawk's lunch: chicken salad, pepperoni pizza, cold sliced turkey. I was struck with my recent ah-ha realization that religious blessings before meals were actually an acknowledgment of the ultimate sacrifice paid by those lower on the food chain. A 'thank you" for trading their lives for ours.

Whatever was beneath the hawk's feet - a snake? rat? lizard? - apparently stopped fighting. The hawk ceased its deadly stomp-dance and even stopped feeding for a few moments, apparently satiated.

The clouds above made a madcap pattern of sun and shade as the hawk sat, contented, on the bridge - a full stomach, a brisk winter wind. I resumed my chores and when I looked outside again, the hawk had disappeared.

I couldn't resist -- I went down to the bridge, hoping for a clue about what kind of animal had died in front of my eyes. The carcass was gone. All I saw was a bloody stain on the rail. I lowered my head in sorrow and respect.

Life feeds on itself 100% of the time. And most of that time, I don't even notice...