Grand Junction, Colorado
A
pair of prairie falcons have nested in the massive cottonwood across the
street, and I find them fascinating as they dart from tree to tree, perch on
the backyard fence, or land in the street to drink from an ephemeral pond
created by a neighbor watering his yard.
A sandy,
speckled raptor a bit larger than a raven, the prairie falcon has a powerful
body, tapered wings, and a narrow tail that spreads in flight. Adapted to
desert life, it feeds primarily on small mammals like mice and voles. The
prairie falcon’s cruising speed nears 50 miles per hour, but in a dive they can
reach 100 miles per hour, a truly amazing speed. When they call out, they make
a high-pitched piping sound similar to an osprey’s cry. Sometimes the notes are
clear, and sometimes they have a rasping undertone.
The female, the larger member of
the species, tends to stay near the nest, while the male will range across the nearby
territory in order to take an intruder, most likely an owl or hawk, by surprise.
So, the falcon that perches on our house’s roof ridge or in our mulberry tree
is usually the male.
One evening, the male settled into
the Siberian elm across the alley from my backyard. Reclining in my lawn chair,
I studied it as it preened its tailfeathers and stretched its wings, preparing
to bed down for the evening. Even after the sun was gone, I could still see it
silhouetted against the dusk’s western glow. Nearby, the crescent moon emerged
in the darkening sky. It was in conjunction with Venus, the brightest planet,
symbol of the Meso-American deity Quetzalcoatl, and they all created a line of
sacred objects – moon, Venus, and falcon – sentinels in the growing night.
It was a moment of great magic and
beauty – the wilderness gracing the city with its holy presence.
