There are bunnies on the dirt
road that runs directly to the cove. Lots of them. I see them every day. Not in
bunches. Usually one at a time and, rather than spook the furry, sweet creatures,
I stop and talk to them.
“Don’t worry,” I say, “I know
that I frighten you but I’m not going to hurt you. You can stay there doing
whatever it is you are doing and I’ll just stroll by toward the water.”
That does it, usually. They
hear my voice and they scamper, but this morning the bunny on the path freezes;
it remains absolutely still, facing the thick bushes toward where he or she was
headed. So I keep talking, making my voice as soothing and reassuring as
possible.
“I’m just going to walk past
you to the cove,” I say. “Isn’t it a nice morning?” Stuff like that.
And, to my amazement, this
bunny turns its head to look at me. I am pleased beyond measure. He is maybe a
bit curious? Certainly he must have heard human voices before, but he turns his
head toward me and I feel a rush of unexpected and gentle acceptance.
Two days later on my walk to
the cove I am making time along the macadam when a fluttering motion in the sky
slightly forward of me—not very high yet, but climbing-- catches my eye. A
hawk. The light offers no shine on the feathers, so I am not sure what kind of
hawk it is, but from its compact shape and tail configuration, I figure it is a
red tailed hawk.
I admire hawks: their
powerful wings, their laser sharp vision and their ability to soar high in the
sky and then suddenly dive with astonishing accuracy toward their prey. I love
seeing them resting, waiting on a tree branch turning their heads this way and
that, taking in their surroundings and its possibilities for food.
This rising hawk catches my
breath. It has a bunny gripped in its sharp talons, the bunny’s body neatly parallel
to the body of the hawk. The hawk’s lift is not the least impeded by the weight
of the rabbit; it flies smoothly and efficiently toward home. A nest of hungry
baby hawks, I assume, will gorge on that bunny.
I know that in nature
everything is something else’s food. That’s the way it is. But still. . . .
I imagine the bunny hopping
through some low brush when suddenly it’s back is deeply pierced by clawed
talons, it’s neck sliced by a razor shark beak and, perhaps not yet dead, it
finds itself painfully lifted into the air. Does the bunny know its life is
over, I wonder? I am hoping it is already dead by the time it becomes lunch
cargo, but that may not be the case.
Humans are the only species
who kill for the fun of it. Witness the recent outrageous kill of the male
lion, Cecil. Cecil, a long time, favorite resident of Hwange National Park in
Zimbabwe, was lured off protected land by the scent of dead meat dragged along
by a car.
Once off the parkland, Cecil was shot with a bow and arrow and wounded,
but not killed, by American dentist, Dr. Walter J. Palmer. Palmer paid $54,000
for the opportunity. They had to track Cecil for two days before Palmer could
finally kill him with a gun. He then beheaded the lion.
Give me the hawk headed home
with his dead rabbit any day.
