An Owl Dropped In For Dinner

[Anonymous Poster]

The lady of the house and I were sitting out on the deck last
evening sipping our adult beverages and enjoying the valley air.

The deck is at the back of the house, with a view of the ridge
behind us and most of our 32 acres. A string of cedars marches to
the southwest, evidence of an old fence line, while a half dozen
others and the occasional deciduous tree guard the south corner
of the house. Numerous birds make their homes in these trees,
attracted by the surrounding fields, nearby ponds, and free
flowing bird feeder. We enjoy watching their antics and listening
to their songs.

Yesterday, a particularly garrulous flock of grackles were
cavorting in a cedar about 150 feet from the deck, when a huge
brown bird slammed through the tree and dropped into the tall
field grass below. The grackles went nuts.

We stood up to get a better view. Neither one of us gotten a good
look at the bird. The air around the cedar boiled with furious
crackles, who dive bombed the grass, screaming unceasingly, while
all the other species fell silent.

After a few seconds, a great horned owl rose out of the grass with
a limp grackle in its claws. Its brethren stormed the owl in what
seemed like a futile rescue attempt, while the hunter climbed out
along the tree line and disappeared from view. The cloud of
screaming grackles followed closely.

The din of the grackles grew distant, and the other birds resumed
their evening activities. We sat back down to our drinks and
talked of what we had seen. Shortly, the grackles began to return.
One by one, they came back to the same tree that had borne the
attack.

Each returning bird chose a branch and began a series of spaced
calls. We could almost translate them in our heads.

"Who did it get?"

"I don't know. Did anyone see?"

"I made it."

"I'm here; I'm over here."

. . . . or so it seemed.

In a way it seems gratuitously poetic to say a grackle's life is
lost and the flock mourns, while an owl will live another day, yet
that is what happened, and we feel genuinely privileged to have
witnessed the event.

Somehow it makes you appreciate life just a little more.

SnowRidge

 

[wroughtn_harv]

Thanks for sharing.

That was a good example of life and things doing what they do just because that's what they do. Whether it's a grackle or an owl, they do what they do.

 

[Anonymous Poster]

What a great story! 'Who missing'? Lol!

I suspect that they were saying something more like...'That was close! Glad it wasn't me! Whew! Lol! Very well told. Thanks.

 

[sendero]

Watching nature in action is probable the biggest reason we bought our land. And we haven't been dissapointed, though we we have yet to see an owl (hear them plenty tho).

I've heard people in the city express disdain for grackles. We have plenty of them here in Dallas, and they have a call that some find grating but I find fascinating. But the ones in the city are pretty much scavengers, living on food waste and sneaking into the dog/cat bowl when the opportunity arises.

I would have never guessed they would have attempted to defend their own. That makes them even more interesting.

Thanks for the great story...

 

[popeye]

Good for the owl. I hate grackles. Saw three of them gang up on a mourning dove and dive bombed him till they killed it then flew off. I shoot em every chance I get. I understand they will rob eggs out of nests too.
Mike

 

[Anonymous Poster]

</font><font color="blue" class="small">( I would have never guessed they would have attempted to defend their own. )</font>

Yep, they'll even take on people and cats. I lived aboard a sailboat for many years. For awhile, I lived in a Florida marina that hosted a flock of grackles. During nesting season, walking to the heads (showers/restrooms to you landlubbers /forums/images/graemlins/grin.gif) took on the trappings of a mission.

You needed headgear of some sort, because it was dead certain you would be dive bombed by the grackles between the dock and the heads--and they weren't shy about raking your scalp with their claws either.

Pity the poor marina cats. They had it worse. Any time one of them ventured out, it was sure to catch a grackle attack on its rear end. One of the boaters had a big male that was the cock of the walk, except when the grackles decided otherwise. They turned that tom into a real pussycat--one who ducked and ran whenever he was outside. No doubt about it, the birds were in charge at that place.

SnowRidge