A flash from the corner of my eye, an old man’s floater, causes me to pause and wonder at the failings of my body. Then I turn my head to follow the direction of this meteor across my vision. There on the ground sits a young Cooper’s hawk not 10 feet away. A female judging by the fierce yellow color of her eyes. I stand very still as I template her, and she me. If I believed in signs, I would attach some importance to the exchange we have. A new year’s hawk. But I am willing to just let the joy of wild things wash over me.

I live in Atlanta, a city of trees. I am walking to my backyard writer’s sanctuary when I see her. My small shed sits on a hill and faces north to a 200 yard expanse of sky looking out over my neighbors rooftops. I’ve planted trees to block them, so if I squint, I can pretend I am in the sitting in a tree in the woods again. From my perch, I am ringed with loblolly pines, tall tulip poplars, and sweet gums. And sky.

Last year I watched a pair of Red-tails draw circles in the blue while the female demurely dropped her legs signaling her readiness. The pair built a nest in the pine directly above me. I watched them bring snakes and chipmunks back to their nest and learned something of their hunting patterns. I mourned the loss of their chick when our wobbly jet stream, knocked off balance by climate change, brought freezing rain down from the north. The year before their nest was blown out of pine across the street. I imagine it’s tough being a hawk.

At night I open my windows to two barred owls that sing me to sleep. They live in a park a block away and come to sit on a bare pine limb above my window. Mostly, they just sing, “hoo, hoo, too-HOO; hoo, hoo, too-HOO, ooo.” But the calls I like the most are their caterwauling. It’s as if one of them started to tell a joke but got interrupted by the other jumping in to add some detail. Then both start laughing at forgetting the punch line. I sometimes feel like they are talking directly to me, and reply, “That was a good one. Tell the one about the mouse again.” They do, often repeating the exchange. It makes me smile.

I read that “In many cultures, a barred owl visiting you is often interpreted as a symbol of wisdom, intuition, and potential change, signifying that you should listen to your inner voice and pay attention to important messages or insights coming your way; essentially, it could be a call to tap into your deeper knowledge and understanding.” Perhaps they have told me to watch for the Cooper’s hawk. Mostly I know the owls are simply staking out their territory.

The Cooper’s hawk might have been looking for a bird it knocked down, its principle food source. I worry that, even with good local habitat and canopy, the bird populations are plummeting. Everything in nature is connected and the Cooper’s hawk is on life’s fabulous tree, dependent on birds that eat insects whose populations are plummeting, poisoned by pesticides, erased by the destruction of habit, and affected by rapidly changing climate.

I feel lucky to have these visitors. I try to discern the insights of owls, but am only left with the wonder and joy these birds bring. There is some promise and potential in their wildness. The new year’s hawk is a sign indeed.

Happy new year, and thanks for all you do.

We are all connected. Savor the Earth!’™

– Hobie,
L. Hobart Stocking
SkyWaterEarth.com
hobart@skywaterearth.com