I heard my first broad-winged hawk before I saw it. For a long time – weeks, months – I could not figure out what it was.
It was the late ’90s and we were living in a condo behind Timmy Tuxedo on Fleming Street. The call came in the quiet gaps between our over-the-back-fence neighbors power-washing lobster traps, and the guest house next door blasting Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.”
It was a high, keening, single note, somewhere between a gently steaming tea kettle and a bomb falling from the sky. Most bird calls sound kind of hurried, like a vinyl record played at a higher speed. This one seemed to go forever, but probably only lasted two or three seconds.
I spent hours wandering the neighborhood, staring blankly into trees, trying to figure out what I was hearing. I mean, a bird probably, but was it an owl or some other previously unimagined beast? And then I saw it, this kind of brownish, blinking hawk, about the size of a wine bottle, and nearly as upright.
I’m not sure how I knew it was a broad-wing, as perched hawks can be tough to tell apart – it’s much easier when they’re flying – but I somehow figured it correctly, and it was nice to have a clear starting point for my relationship with a species, a first among the thousands of broad-wings I’ve seen since.
It is hard to know which birds will make flashy and notable appearances in the Key West and Florida Keys zeitgeist. Every fall I get a few texts and emails about the turkey vultures, usually to the effect of, “Oh my God, where did they come from? What do they want? Why are there so many?” And I have to find gentle ways to say, “Well, this happens every year, but maybe you just haven’t noticed before?” without sounding like a condescending jerkface birdsplainer. Similarly, I get messages in the spring with people wanting to know. “What the hell is with the mockingbirds? Why are they singing so much? Why are they so loud? Why won’t they stop?” And I have to find nice ways to say they’ve been doing this longer than humans have had written language. The males sing to establish and defend their territory and to impress the lady mockingbirds with their suitability for reproduction, and humans have survived war and a seemingly infinite number of other brutalities, so you’ll probably survive the sound of a bird singing for a couple weeks.
What I really like, though, are the birds that make these brief and more unpredictable appearances in the local collective consciousness – clusters of similar experiences that are more coincidental than indicative of some greater trend. It’ll be something like a streak of Chuck-wills-widows hanging out in people’s backyards. Or a handful of people will all notice scissor-tailed flycatchers hawking for dragonflies around the high voltage lines of New Town. Then a few people will independently go, “Wait, we have crows here?”
I love those trends and conversations.
The broad-winged hawk seems to be the bird species making the biggest public impression this winter. A lot of people are seeing them in their backyards. I’ve seen posts or received texts in recent weeks from friends Rita and Fred up on Sugarloaf, from Damali across town, and from Woodsy down the street. All of them said, in effect, “Hey, this cool hawk keeps showing up in my yard.”
There were 5,535 broad-winged Hawks counted migrating south past the Florida Keys Hawkwatch in Marathon this fall, slightly more than normal, but not hugely disproportionate. You can look up some days in October and see a kettle of 300 swirling in the sky. Most years, about half the southbound total are later seen flying back north. Most of the ones that didn’t turn around presumably make the water crossing to Cuba and places south. But a goodly number stay until spring.
I tend to see them when I’m riding my bike around town or driving up the highway. Mostly they’re just standing there on a wire or a tree branch, trying not to be noticed. Broad-wings are perch hunters. Their shtick is to pose statue-like and wait for something small and unsuspecting – say a mouse or a gray catbird – to walk underneath them, so they can fall on it talons first and, well, eat it. That’s how they survive. (People will occasionally accuse broad-wings and other raptors in the Keys of wanting to put the moves on their teacup Yorkies and other small dogs, but there is no raptor in the Keys – and very few in the world – big enough to pull that off, or even bother trying.)
It’s not unusual to see a broad-wing perched quietly high on the powerlines across the street from my house, but the other day I saw one perched on our neighbor Jack’s low, unpainted picket fence, maybe three feet off the ground. I watched it for a while, expecting it to fly off. When it didn’t, I went back in and grabbed my camera. I shot a few frames, took a few steps closer, then shot a few more frames. Cars drove by, bikes passed and the bird did not flush. That made me think something might be wrong with it. So I took more and more steps closer, more and more convinced the bird was unwell.
Finally I slung my camera over my shoulder and reached for it, ready to grab it and bring it to the folks at the Key West Wildlife Center. That’s when the bird stepped off the fence, glided down Jack’s driveway, flapped twice, banked around the corner, and disappeared, making it clear the bird was okay after all.
A couple hours later I got a text from Jack with a picture of the cool bird that was hanging out in his backyard.
