A Hawk in the Park

I hadn’t seen the hawk yet, but it had been dropping hints of its presence as soon as the weather started getting warmer. A few weeks ago we almost stepped on one of its discarded meals.

Boo Boo and I were having a play date with his best friend Max and his mom. We were collecting rocks to stack. Boo Boo called the rock stacks snowmen. We were scanning the ground for rocks when we noticed a pulpy grey mass lying in the grass. It was nearly impossible to tell what the pulpy form was until I spotted one pigeon foot a wing peaking out from under what was the poor creature’s torso. There was a giant hole in the chest cavity, and the head and wing were missing, presumably making their way through a hawk’s digestive tract. I was curious as to why, when the hawk could have had any cut it wanted, it opted for the pigeon’s head instead of its breast.

We quickly shepherded the toddlers away from the gore so they could continue constructing stone snowmen.

A few days later one of our friends was telling us they saw a headless squirrel in the park, and a couple days after that, when Boo Boo and I were collecting sticks, two kids passed by on their scooters.

“Look! It’s the hawk!” said one, pointing to the sky.

I looked up, Boo Boo looked up, a group of teenagers smoking a blunt on the bench looked up. We all wanted to see the hawk, even if its presence meant the imminent doom of a cooing pigeon or an unsuspecting squirrel digging around for acorns.

“No, it’s just a seagull,” said the other kid, sullen.

But last week that changed. We didn’t even have to look up. Jer-bear, Boo Boo and I had staked out some ground at a pile of mulch near the park’s Recreation Center, building mulch snowmen when we noticed some humans, a father and his three kids, staring at the ground with uncommon enthusiasm, and boom, I saw a grounded hawk.

“Oh my god, it’s a hawk!” I told Jer-bear. Boo Boo looked at me, comprehending my excitement but not my words.

“It’s a BIG BIRD,” I told him. “Let’s go see it!”

We stood at least six feet away from the other family, and many, many more feet from the giant hawk, which looked as big as Boo Boo.

I had seen Red tailed Hawks on wing over the park in summers past, also perched on lamp posts, and even possibly in our neighbor’s willow tree, but had never seen one on the ground. Was it hurt?

Then I noticed something crumpled and grey under its massive talons. We stared at the hawk, and it stared at us. Was it waiting for us to leave so that it could lunch in peace? Also, what was its lunch?

“Squirrel,” said the father of three children as he snapped a photo. His children stayed behind him, peeking around his back. He spoke to them in an Eastern European tongue.

Upon closer inspection the mess of grey revealed itself to be the squirrel’s tail, which was the only part of the squirrel not ensnared in the hawk’s talons. If there was any chance the squirrel would survive this predicament I felt it was my obligation to try to make that happen. I know there are many squirrels in the world and fewer red tailed hawks, but I feel like there’s a special type of bad karma reserved for people who watch death and don’t do anything about it, like the people whose first thought is to take out them phone and film someone getting pushed off the platform, instead of finding a way to help.  Even worse would be knowing that my death was just an afterthought, not even the main attraction, as people marveled at the majestic creature that killed me. Zebras and water buffalo must get this feeling all the time when safari goers snap pictures of the lions that are gorging on their flesh.

I know, it’s not really that deep. But what about Boo Boo? He loves squirrels! Was he even aware that the squirrel was dead, or dying? Would he be able to understand death if I described it to him? Also, how would I describe it to him? It’s spring and life is abounding all around us, but death was louder. It had sirens. And even when there weren’t sirens there were the numbers in the news. Would I tell him that death is when you stop breathing? When your heart stops beating? And how aware of his own breath and heartbeat is my two-year-old son? Would it help if I said that death is when you can’t play in the park anymore? Or eat oatmeal, blueberries or meatballs? And if he could understand death would he think less of me if I remained a spectator in this squirrel’s death instead of an intervenor?

“Maybe we can save it.”

“It is already dead–almost dead. Will not live,” said the dad with three kids.

Suddenly there was a hint of movement from its tail–the bushy furs seemed to come to life despite the body’s listlessness.

“It’s still alive!”

“No. Is the wind,” said the man with three kids.

The hawk, meanwhile, just stood there, returning our stare. Then, for the first time in my life I saw a hawk walk. It was a stomping strut, befitting of a show horse, or at least not out of place in Brooklyn, except that the squirrel was still attached to the talons like a shrimp on a skewer. It flopped around on the bird’s left foot every time it took a step, hitting the ground like a rubber chicken as the hawk put its weight on the limp animal.

Then hawk then shook its foot. The squirrel stayed put. The hawk then started dragging its foot across the ground the same way I would if there was dog poop on my shoes. Was the squirrel stuck? We did not know. The only thing we were sure of was that it was dead.

Which was best for the squirrel, since the hawk gave us one last penetrating stare before plunging its beak into the animal.

“What doing?” asked Boo Boo, who had been cautiously observing the proceedings from between our legs.

“The hawk is eating the squirrel,” I explained, before gently leading him away.

I hope it’s a long time before I have to explain to Boo Boo what death is, but knowing that one animal can eat another is a good start.