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| Peregrine Falcon - photos - courtesy Sharon Milligan For more articles, click on the blue title For this week's field trip, go to the end of the article |
Whatever I might say about the
Peregrine Falcon has been said better by many other writers, in many different
ways. There is simply nothing left in my writer's bag of tricks with which to
touch you, reader, in the way other writers have touched me. How I wish I
could.
Having said that, I still have
three double-spaced pages to fill with thoughts and words that are bound to
sound either borrowed or contrived, because my subject is the Peregrine Falcon,
and it's all been said before.
It is Saturday morning last. The
sky is blankly grey; there is no sun glinting off the water; the tide at
Clermont Harbor is low. We (my class and I) have found what we've been looking
for -- ideal conditions in which to cull a Franklin's Gull or two out of flocks
of Laughing Gulls .
Satisfaction is immediate. There
are two Franklin's Gulls; I go through the often-repeated process of pointing
out field marks and making sure that each observer sees what he should see to
feel good about the identification of a bird they are meeting for the very
first time.
There are other birds there; I
call them the birds because getting to know them forms a foundation upon which
new birders can build an impressive repertoire of beach-bird savvy.
There are four species of herons,
from the gangly Great Blue to the delicate Snowy Egret. There are four species
of plovers, the stop-and-go birds of the beach. There are five species of
sandpipers, from the wind-up-toys called Sanderlings to the businesslike
dowitchers. There are four species of gulls and two species of terns. There are
Black Skimmers. And cormorants and Brown Pelicans on pilings offshore.
In retrospect, my guesstimate is
that there are several hundred birds between us and deep water. Each of them is
doing its own thing, and unmindful of us, as long as we keep a decent distance.
There are no beachgoers to shoo the birds away; no running dogs to test their
latent hunting skills. Perfect!
Then it happens. As if by some
form of telepathic communication, every bird, from the mighty Great Blue to the
miniscule Western Sandpiper, receives an urgent message. Danger is coming,
fast, from the west.
There is an explosion of movement
on the beach as each bird seeks escape. Pandemonium reigns. Some run, some
swim, some fly, some dive beneath the water. In the blink of a human eye, the
beach in front of us empties of birds.
We have yet to grasp what the
birds already know. With acuity born of instinct, they have seen the lightning
and heard the distant thunder of nature's most perfect flying predator -- a
Peregrine Falcon.
We, mere mortals, have seen no
lightning, heard no thunder. But we react to their reaction, and look skyward.
A dark wedge appears -- it flies
fast and straight as an arrow. Overhead, it becomes known to us for what it is
-- a Peregrine -- and we begin to appreciate the high drama that is unfolding.
Time seems to have stood still,
but only seconds have elapsed between the sound of the silent alarm, the flight
of the birds, and the arrival of the most feared, and fearless, of avian
warriors.
This avian warrior lives on birds
-- pigeons, ducks, shorebirds, and many others, some of them smaller, some of
them larger, but none of them faster. A Peregrine seldom fails to get what it is
after.
Before it has mounted this
attack, it has preselected, drawn a bead on the bird it is after, and nothing
will stay it from its course.
Like a heat-seeking missile, it
follows the flight of its intended victim, a dowitcher, behind it and above it.
The dowitcher is doomed; surely it knows that. We watch as the remainder of its
life grows shorter with each wingbeat -- the swift, sure beats of the menacing
falcon, the frantic, darting, dodging beats of the hapless dowitcher.
The falcon stoops, folds its
wings and dives downward -- literature credits it with speeds of 180 mph to
even 275 mph in such a stoop. It must only hit the dowitcher, or rake its
talons once, in passing, and life for the dowitcher is over.
But wait. The stoop is aborted,
the falcon regains altitude, pursues the same dowitcher from above. It stoops
again. Aborts again. The dowitcher is zigzagging frantically. It is not flying
faster, but it can fly erratically -- flights which the powerful Peregrine is
incapable of performing.
The falcon repeats the same
stoops, four of them, stopping short of actually hitting its target. By this
time, there is not another bird in sight -- only the falcon and the dowitcher.
It makes one last stoop and
pursues the dowitcher just above the water. Soon now, the falcon will claim its
victim.
But it does not. It rises again,
high in the air, and sets a steady course toward the northwest. It flies out of
sight, and there is reprieve for the dowitcher, a gutsy little bird that,
despite great fear, earns our respect and a silent cheer.
As quickly as it began, the drama
is over. Western Sandpipers are back, probing the mudflats. A Forster's Tern
flies in. Some loose flocks of dowitchers, shed of fright, feed in water up to
their tarsi. We leave, before the end of the closing credits.
But this we believe: a Peregrine
Falcon in search of a meal will not fail to bring it home. Was it play?
Practice for a time of real hunger?
I don't pretend to know.
This article was published in November 1996
This article was published in November 1996
All are welcome on Mississippi Coast Audubon Society field trips!
November 5, 2016: Clower-Thornton Nature Trail, Harrison County.
This was the favorite birding spot of Jay Morris, whose enthusiasm and expertise inspired many of you. Right in the middle of Gulfport, it was a famed migrant trap for songbirds before Hurricane Katrina, and the habitat continues to improve slowly.
This site is part of the Mississippi Coastal Birding Trail. More information at http://mscoastbirdingtrail.
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