Glancing out of my observation window in the living room, I saw a grey ball of feathers looking somewhat like a tufted titmouse, but this one had no tufts. The tiny bird had flattened his tufts, making himself as small as he could by hunkering down next to a branch on the lilac near my window. His eyes were as big as saucers; dark round pools of fear looking straight up at the sky.

Looking out the window I saw that Stumpy, the Eastern grey squirrel who lives in my backyard feasting on the remains of the feed from the birdfeeders, was also frozen in his tracks near the bird feeder, looking straight up. Hmmm, what’s up here? There was no one at the bird feeder; no sounds of goldfinches squabbling as they usually do or woodpeckers zipping in and out.

Living in a rural/suburban New Hampshire border town, I had never witnessed such behavior at my bird feeders. My birds fly in and out like most seed-loving birds, fight over the best spot, and in general have a good time. At night, I might have the occasional skunk or raccoon digging around my foundation for grubs or a deer or two munching on the hostas. That’s about all the wildlife I see, unless you count the turkeys and doves and the invasion of chipmunks that everyone has. But this behavior was different.

Gladly dropping what I was doing, I picked up my camera and headed for the screened porch, quietly watching the little titmouse wishing he were the size of a walking stick. I think if I’d tried to pry him lose he wouldn’t have let go.

Scanning the nearby trees, I saw it­a hawk, looking cool and confident of his next meal, perched on the branch at attention, slowing turning his head to take in the view. My camera in hand, set on continuous shutter speed, I found him in my screen and started shooting. Click, click, click. I must have gotten 30 exposures before he took off.

Looking around again for him, I saw him swoop, and Bam! Yellow, black, and white feathers drifted down from near the birdfeeder as he flew upward, the tiny body of an unlucky goldfinch hanging from his beak. Stumpy was still flat on the ground with one eye towards the sky and the titmouse was still holding fast to his branch.  The fear in the body of the titmouse told its story. The appearance of a hawk shadow causes these precious little birds to hide with fear and exhibit abnormal behaviors such as allowing me to photograph him so close, when he would have normally flown at the mere sound of the sliding door opening.

So who was the guy terrorizing my feeding station? From the field guide and my digital photos, a Cooper’s hawk, a small 14-inch by 20-inch, with a tail rounded at the tip. But what was he doing here in my suburban backyard? In the 10 years we've lived here, I’ve never seen a hawk, and according to the guide these hawks prefer deciduous forest near open fields for their hunting grounds, not backyards.

Reading further, I learned that some Cooper’s hawks have discovered the backyard bird feeder as a hawk supermarket.
But the fear Stumpy displayed puzzled me, as he looked to me to be too big for a small Cooper’s hawk to even think about having for dinner, especially since Cooper’s hawks aren’t normally found in suburban areas where a lot of squirrels dine at bird feeders.  Reading further, it appears small mammals are also on their menu as hawks with sharp beaks tear the flesh of their prey rather than gulping it whole like owls, making any live animal they can carry fair game.

After the attack and the settling of the feathers, the titmouse slowly turned his head to survey the trees, released his vise-grip on the tree branch, shivered as if he had dodged a bullet, and flew away to live another day. Stumpy, not as alarmed by the Cooper’s Hawk as the titmouse, straightened himself out, scratched his fur and starting looking for more leftover bird seed. Gradually the squabbling goldfinches came back, as did the woodpeckers and chickadees. Bird life was back to normal.

By Suzy Martin, Master Gardener