Falcons in miniature
As I sit here contemplating the beauty of our smallest falcon, the American kestrel, I happen to have a dead specimen lying on my desk. It was brought to me a few days ago still alive, but barely. It couldn’t fly, and had trouble perching. Even so, it was full of fight, and managed to get a good grasp of my finger with its talons. They hurt, and were not easy to pry off.
The little guy – kestrels are one of the few raptors in which the sexes are distinctly plumaged – was a male of this year. Despite the beauty of its brightly pigmented feathers and its ferocity, it was starving to death.
And his left wing was injured at the most fragile part – the alula, or thumb. With young such as he, it’s the starving that comes first. The injury results from weakened, unsteady flight.
We fed him – in retrospect, possibly too much too fast. We gave him antibiotics, and a warm and quiet shelter, but he succumbed within a couple of days.
Now he’s here at my desk, for me to marvel over. With life still within his body, he was so incredible. Looking so delicate, as a miniature of the other, much larger falcons, and his close cousins, the hawks and eagles, he lacked none of their determination in his defiant stare.
In fact, it was hard to see beyond that face. It was so animated, so quick. But now, in death, the face is not the focal point. His feathers are. They are so soft. They are so perfect. Each delicate web, the feather vane, overlaps another to form a continuous covering that is so different from the hairy skin of a mammal.
As I part the feathers, I see that they are not uniformly placed over his skin, but are arranged in rows, feather tracks, pterylae. Lots of ugly, wrinkled skin is exposed between – birds do have ugly skin. But the feathers are so perfect.
This guy has lots of color. Rufous and blue-gray. Dark spots and black tail tip and wing tips. But again, that face. This time, in death, it’s the markings, vertical black stripes separated by a large white splotch, that are arresting.
Several falcons have distinctive “mustaches,” but this kestrel is so striking with his double mustache. Or, his mustache and sideburns. Perhaps he was the precursor to the fashion of the ‘60s. His colors and patterns fit, only lacking bell-bottoms.
But in death, the eye is so different. It was the portal of life, I guess, because it’s the most obvious sign of a lack of life. Enough about his death, however. A kestrel’s life is so full. There is so much to tell.
This guy’s parents arrived here last spring. You had probably seen kestrels out on the Rathdrum prairie throughout the winter, but those birds thought that they were in the South. Actually, if you had spent your summer in northern Alberta or lower Northwest Territories, North Idaho is the South.
As this guy’s parents left last year at about this time, shifting into lower latitudes – perhaps as far south as Mexico – our winter kestrels were arriving from the north. But as they headed back north in the spring, our nesting kestrels were arriving. This pair had probably nested together here for several previous summers.
I doubt they chose Kootenai County for the lakes or the mountains. In fact, they prefer the open areas that prairies and fields offer. They came looking for a ready-made hole in a tree, and bugs. Yes, bugs.
Other falcon species hate to admit it, but their smaller cousins are bug eaters – insectivores. Other falcons hunt birds as large as grouse, or mammals as large as ground squirrels. But summer kestrels take grasshoppers and beetles – even earthworms – from the ground, and dragonflies from the air.
When pressed for food, as the insects disappear in the winter – for it is insects that they prefer – kestrels do turn to more traditional falcon fare. They are adept mousers and even take bats and lizards in other areas. And although it accounts for a relatively small part of their diet, as their previous name would imply, they are also bird predators.
Until 1973, our American kestrel was known by the ignominious misnomer of “sparrow hawk.” Here, for once, the bird-namers got something right. Sparrow hawk indeed! It’s a wonder, however, that they didn’t rename it the “grasshopper falcon.”
By the way, also in 1973, my favorite falcon, the merlin, escaped the name “pigeon hawk.” Talk about ignominious! And you know what else? Since that time, merlin breeding records in the lower 48 states have increased. I bet there’s a connection.
One last by the way. Today I saw my first merlin of this fall season. It was in southeast Coeur d’Alene. What a thrill to behold!
Now, it is true that kestrels will not pass up a fat sparrow in winter, but they are not hawks. They are simply miniature falcons who like bugs. They can, in fact, take birds as large as meadowlarks. And they do this in typical falcon fashion.
Just as does the merlin, the prairie falcon, the peregrine falcon and the gyrfalcon, the kestrel has long, pointed wings built for speed and stealth. It also has the long toes and the sharp, sicklelike talons of the larger falcons. The kestrel even has the unique notch in its beak that makes a falcon such an efficient killing machine.
The notch, placed on the short, hooked upper beak, has the sole purpose of breaking the neck of a suddenly-captured vertebrate prey item. Eagles and hawks are the big bruisers of the raptor world. Falcons are relatively delicate. They aren’t looking for a fight. They want a quick dispatch and one that won’t risk injury to themselves.
Kestrels are also unique among falcons in their habit of hovering while hunting. As do the larger falcons, a kestrel will watch from a perch, then shoot straight as an arrow to the target. But since their prey is often straight down, and not so wary. A hover and a drop will work great to capture the unsuspecting grasshopper.
The little falcons do seem a bit jittery compared to their cousins. When they watch from a perch, they incessantly bob their tails. If nothing else, this makes identification at a distance a snap. I wonder if grasshoppers are high in caffeine.
As I mentioned before, my dead kestrel’s parents came to North Idaho looking for a nest site. For this purpose, there is nothing better than a tree cavity. It can be natural or flicker-produced.
If no cavities, a hole in a cliff, or a cracked eave in an abandoned building will do. Kestrels even take nest boxes if offered, or a magpie nest whether offered or not.
When it comes to a nest site, the more prefab, the better. None of the falcons add their own new material to their nests. This despite the fact that a kestrel will spend two whole months in the process of incubation and in the feeding of nestlings.
So, small enough to be a dove but savvy enough to find and kill mice, and fierce enough to kill birds its own size, our little falcons stay just long enough to raise their family in the abundance of our summer bugs. Then it’s off to other places, vacating North Idaho just in time for the kestrel “snow birds” to arrive.
But the fate of this little guy on my desk was elsewhere. And that is how it must be. Falcon parents have no control over what happens to their offspring once they all leave the nesting area. So, to protect the family line, they produce an excess of young, genetically hoping that enough survive to maturity, to breed, to keep the family name going.
Too often, from a sentimental point of view, it is a vain hope. Before their first birthday, over half of most falcon young will have died. If this were not the case, think of the consequences.
Years ago I read an example that stated something to the effect that if a single robin produced its normal number of young in its lifetime, and all those young survived to similarly reproduce, it would not be long before the earth’s surface would be several miles thick in robins.
Such an event would make it difficult to enjoy other birds, or any outdoor recreation. Just imagine the robin poop that you’d be walking in!
And so this little guy has gone the way of many of his siblings and cousins. As I look at him, I could dwell on sadness for the lost experiences he would have had as our smallest falcon. Instead, I appreciate the experience of seeing him this close.
To me, in an aesthetic sense, his death was not a total loss. As he lies here, to me he looks perfect. Perfect in every detail of the smallest feather around his glassy eye. Perfect in the mechanics of his limp foot. But he wasn’t perfect – at least not perfect enough.
He didn’t survive to reproduce. The other nest mates that do make it are just a little more perfect. And for that I give thanks. For that is the wondrous process that has given me the kestrel, with all its colors and antics, that I enjoy so much in life. And upon that fact will I dwell.