Last night, as we headed out on our evening walk with Kolja, I just about tripped over a dark mass on a concrete paver in our back yard. On closer examination, I realized I was looking at feathers and feet and what would have been guts.
It was examine it further and puke or let it be and send B. I opted for the latter.
B. got a flashlight, inspected the mess and suggested I got a shovel and a trash bag, because this was going to be a “two-people job.” Or we could wait for the gardener to take care of it, which sounded like a much better idea.
As I was finishing The Goldfinch this afternoon, I noticed something gliding by our window into our garden (don’t ask why I notice things like that while reading…). The wings seemed too big for our regular pigeons and robins. And there it was, on the branch of a pine. A hawk. In the middle of Las Vegas.
It ruffled its feathers and scratched an itch on his back with a mean beak. Then it took a launching position and torpedoed down to our iron fence next to where the feathered mass had been. He turned his head one way and then the other, and did a little sidestep dance with his yellow claws.
His prey was gone. Only a few dried up guts, that looked like worms, left.
He changed a vantage point one more time. Still nothing. He came down to the cement, looking for the decomposing flesh tenderized by a warm fall day.
B. said, “No dessert, huh?’
The hawk turned his head 180 degrees, gave us an evil eye and took off.