Woodland Drama

My, but it's hot. All those who complained so bitterly about the unseasonably cool and wet weather should be satisfied. An entire week of 30-degree Celsius. High humidity, high UV levels. The sun so scorching, eye exposure is painful; not looking directly at the sun, merely going about one's business unprotected by sunglasses. Already, we mourn the lack of rain, though it rained heavily, steadily, less than a week ago.

Just as well to leave the baking street and dip down into the ravine, where the air is decidedly cooler, and the breeze penetrates quite nicely. It's amazing to note that, not quite yet the middle of August, poplars are already beginning to lose their leaves. They lie there, on the trail, tinged with a roseate glow, bringing to us the realization that autumn is not all that far off. And wherever autumn is, there follows winter. Hard to imagine in this oppressive heat and humidity, relieved by the creek's proximity and cooler mini-climate.

There are lots and lots of late-summer wildflowers in bloom. I've taken countless photographs of them. No need to encumber ourselves with a camera today. Too hot, just slogging around. Button and Riley trotting behind, we having to turn constantly, urging them forward. Two-thirds of the way through our quotidian hour's ramble, the sound of ... something unusual.

Like a syncopated shriek. Ah, said my husband must be a pileated woodpecker and that sounded reasonable. We haven’t seen too many birds in the ravine lately, although earlier on our walk there had been the sublime song of a cardinal. In any event, we stood where we were for a moment, on the cusp of a hill, about to plunge down into the ravine again from the heights.

Suddenly, as we paced forward into the thickness of the trees, there was a flurry of activity. Two large shadowy forms flew from where we were descending, up toward where we were situated, albeit much higher than us, close to the masts of the maples, poplars and oaks there. And then we were able to make out what they were.

One was an owl, a large barred owl. The other a sharp-shinned hawk, and the hawk was mercilessly harassing the owl. They’re obviously finished with nesting at this time of year, but they’re both raptors, so one would imagine that the hawk was giving the owl grief over his perceived territory. This is how nature has equipped them to ensure their survival relating to their food source is not challenged by others.

The owl sat close to the trunk of the tree he was in, up high on the crotch of a limb, and appeared imperturbably aloof, as though loftily, deliberately unaware of the racket the hawk was making. He swivelled his great head, looked down at us, and then sideways, at where the hawk was sitting relatively close by, continuing its staccato shrieking.

We watched as the hawk’s shrieks intensified in volume, and it flew up and away, then returned in a circular route, time and again, to settle close by the owl, and resume its hysterical barrage. The owl simply ignored the hawk, which appeared to drive the hawk to distraction resulting in further frenzied aerial and aural displays.

It was quite the sight. We stood there awhile, taken with the scene, with Button and Riley seemingly unaware, but content enough to just stand there with us. Finally, we decided to leave the two birds to their disagreement, and as we walked on - feeling pretty buoyant about the scene we were privileged to come upon - we heard the hawk’s complaints receding in the distance.

The remainder of our ramble was taken up with anxious greetings from all those squirrels awaiting their daily rations of peanut treats.