Nature Nugget Contest Second Place Winner
I think the trouble all began back in 2017 when we purchased a bunch of bantam chickens to raise a few extra bucks. We shooed them out into the barnyard, and they fared sumptuously on spilled grain the clumsy stock overlooked. Nothing bothered them, and they buckled right down to the job of cranking out eggs, which invariably turned to baby chicks. Everything was going well, no trouble at all, until one day…
We were seated around the table, eating breakfast, when this awful racket could be heard, coming from the direction of the barn. Instantly I knew something was seriously wrong, and we lunged for the door, sending the chairs scudding across the floor. Fox? Hawk? I ran to find out.
But there was no need for haste. Flying with sure, steady wing beats, a Red-tailed Hawk sailed past the door and over the woods, carrying a writhing hen in its iron talons. There was nothing I could do, so, after wishing the rapidly departing hawk the worst of luck, I re-entered the kitchen to finish my breakfast. But the peace the bantams had known was gone.
A few days later as I walked up the path to the barnyard, I suddenly noticed this brown hump in the middle of the path, scarcely 20 feet (6 m) ahead. I rubbed my eyes, hardly believing what I saw, for that suspicious hump was nothing else but “that hawk” sitting atop a bantam hen, serenely eyeing the autumn scenery. Infuriated, I gathered a handful of rocks and threw them at the bird. Oh, I knew all about the benefits of hawks, but I simply was not going to stand for this behavior. Gathering another handful of rocks, I fired away. Just like that, things began to happen.
Startled by my intrusion, the hawk snapped to attention. Seizing the opportunity to escape, the bantam hen screamed, jerked from under the buteo, and sailed into the safety of the barn.
Now it was the hawk’s turn to be angry. He had caught that hen, and he meant to eat it too. Blindly he shot through the hole the hen had entered. The inside of the barn, where all the other chickens were, erupted into utter chaos!
Now what? Things were getting out of hand. I sped to the barn door and jerked it open. The killer was twisting and diving between the beams and posts, chasing a frantic young rooster.
Banties fluttered and squawked; horses jumped and kicked.
With a jab and a flutter, the young rooster was victim number two.
I kicked into action, and sped across the barn floor, yelling at the top of my voice. That did it! Thoroughly frightened, the hawk released the rooster and winged into the rafters above. He wanted out, badly, and since I was between him and the door, he gathered force and crashed through a window.
Glass tinkled musically, and the hawk disappeared through the opening he had made.
Now what was he going to do? I didn’t trust him one bit. I raced around the corner of the barn just in time to see the hawk alight on the top-most branches of a tree. Seeing me, it screamed and flew away over the trees.
As I watched it go I began feeling a bit dizzy. I couldn’t believe this had actually happened. I had never imagined that a hawk could get as bold as to fly into a barn or sit calmly on a stolen hen just twenty feet away. I staggered into the house to think it over, hoping I would never see that hawk again. But, as it turned out, he had one more trick up his sleeve.
For almost a month, action seemed to have slowed, though a bantam quietly disappeared now and then, until one day…
I was walking in front of the house, herding the bantams away from the flower beds, when I heard an odd rustling behind me. I turned around and almost poked my nose into the oncoming talons of “that hawk,” stretching for the bantams.
With his primaries whistling beside my ear, he aimed a jab at my favorite rooster, missing it by a mere inch. My heart pounding, I roared and kicked at the killer. Chickens rushed about, seeking hiding places, and, in the midst of the mayhem, our dog came rushing to the scene. The hawk flapped frantically to escape, barely avoiding the straining fangs of the canine. It shot screaming over the trees, never to return.
I sat down, reeling with shock. Not a single bantam could be seen anywhere; they had hidden in every imaginable hiding place. A few feathers floated on the breeze. This simply wasn’t real. I couldn’t believe it. Shakily I rounded up the bantams and shooed them into the barn, wondering what could happen next.
But, thankfully, that was the last episode of “that hawk.” I don’t think he returned. If he did, he was a lot more sensible bird.
And now, eight years later, I can think back and “fondly” recall those days when the Red-tailed Hawk visited our farm.