Yesterday, warm sunny weather provided a good opportunity to remove winter's debris from our Littleton farm and prepare the trees and shrubs for the hot, dry months ahead. No sooner had I reached the mulch pile than two jet fighters streaked across the southern sky, curved over the foothills and retreated to the east, leaving a thunderous roar in their wake. While I watched their departure, another squadron flew just above the treetops, heading north; this group, a flock of double-crested cormorants, was much quieter and somehow more reassuring.
Taking a break by mid morning, I caught sight of a dozen American white pelicans, circling their way northward above the South Platte Valley. An hour later, nervous calls from the squirrels and songbirds drew my attention to a pair of Cooper's hawks that were hunting their way through the neighborhood. But the highlight of this air show was a large Swainson's hawk that circled above the farm for a few minutes and then stooped at high speed toward one of our pastures; apparently missing his target, the handsome raptor perched in the top of an elm, surveyed the scene for ten minutes or so and then moved on.
The morning show reminded me of a childhood experience more than fifty years ago. Playing in my grandfather's yard, I was called over to his lounge chair and asked if I saw any birds. Looking around, I said that none were present; my grandfather laughed and pointed out a large flock of chimney swifts that were feeding high overhead. "Always remember to look up or you just might miss something," he said. Wise words from my first mentor!
