The Red-tailed Hawk

The elegant bird of prey. Death on wings. Three pounds of feathers and talons ready to drop from the sky onto an unsuspecting rabbit out for an early morning munch of clover and tear its still-living flesh into bite-sized gobbets (and perhaps carry its carcass up to a convenient flat-topped sculpture for a leisurely dinner).

The Red-tailed Hawk is one of the most common birds of prey we may encounter in Iowa. They can be seen perched on signs on the interstate, or sitting atop telephone poles with a sharp eye scanning the ground for their preferred prey of small mammals. Or they may circle above a field, with slow, heavy wing-beats, broad rudder of a tail fanned out to steer first one way, then another as it surveys the landscape.

It is not an easy life. Though adult hawks have little to fear from other predators, winter cold and scarce prey can be deadly, as can more modern hazards such as automobiles and power lines. They may have to catch several chipmunks in a single day to fill up, or make a plump rabbit last a couple days. If it has young to feed, it must catch and share that much more each day (with monogamous pairs splitting the work: females on the nest and males bringing food to her and the young).

I don't imagine the hawk is prone to introspection, or that it feels anything more than anticipation of a full belly as it rips the fur and meat from its prey. I betray my own feelings about "Nature, red in tooth and claw" when I shrink from the brutality of the world around us as represented by the complex--and necessary--relationship between predator and prey. I always root for the hunted to make its escape, though it means the hunter goes hungry. Does that make me a bad naturalist? A lily-livered, bleeding-heart wimp who refuses to face the cold reality of the cruel world we inhabit?

Perhaps. I lead a comfortable life, with a kitchen full of food available whenever I care to eat and a warm, safe bed to hunker down in at night. Exertion is a choice, not a necessity, and the biggest threat to my physical well-being is an overabundance of calorie-rich foods. The odds of me ever being required to kill my own dinner are minuscule, so I will never feel a hunger that can only be eased by the death of something weaker than myself.

The hawk cannot change its nature to avoid killing any more than a rabbit can choose to live in the treetops. Humans, however, have the luxury of making choices. We can choose to make sacrifices, to minimize suffering and harm to the people, creatures, and landscape around us. Or we can choose to fill our bellies heedless of the effect our choices have on the world around us.