Salida and the Red Tail

I'm not really sure what talk about on days like this, I feel like to get in the habit of frequently writing I should write something but there is very little to talk about, this week has seen me at work more than working.  I haven't been able to get out in the field, nor have I been witness to any unusual birds or behavior.  I thought I'd share something a little older and that I have no pictures to go along with.

On the last trip to Salida with Brandy we were privileged to witness a very special sight.  I wish that I had had my camera ready or at least been on foot.  But we saw a Red Tail Hawk; one of the darker western colour morphs, hunting.  We were driving away from our first marshy site, heading east on CR 161.  It was hot, approaching the mid 80s and birds were in full flight all along the boggy shoulder of the mighty Arkansas.  The road was incredibly dry, the little Honda leaving a plume of red dust behind us.  Brandy was thumbing through the field guide that I had brought, a Smithsonian guide with pictures instead of paintings. I'm very fond of that guide, being the first one that I bought and used to identify birds with.  She was talking about some of the birds that we had just seen; proving the identity of the puffy little yellow warblers.  My camera was in the back, ensconced snugly in its field case, a drab Maxpedition Colossus.  Marsh grass, reeds, cattails and cottonwoods stood around and over us, ranging from last years dead browns, to potassium starved yellows, and healthy living hues of greens.  The cattails hadn't finished growing their brown, flowering body yet but were well on their way.  I rolled the windows down, it was hot enough to boil the apple that I was attempting to eat.  Brandy saw it first, a dark, chunky shape diving at the ground.  I locked up the brakes and slammed the shifter to park.  The hawk wasn't stooping that fast, but it was obviously fast enough.  He crashed into the reeds, a brief struggle ensued; highlighted by the shivering patch of vegetation the bird was in.  And then in one swoop he came up out of the river weeds, something brown in his talons.  The great hunter landed on a fence post in front of the car and began to tear at the weasel in his grip.  I think it was a weasel, my identification of mammals in general is fairly weak, but it was ferret sized, dingy brown, a black ring around the tail near the base.  I scrambled for my camera, bad move, the hawk heard me. He looked right at me; his big golden, dark flecked eyes narrowing on my own blue ones.  There was such an intelligence in that glance.  A feral, wild intelligence that spoke volumes of rivers and woods, of great migrations, and brushes with the void.  The bird launched off the post and ripped full tilt into a stand of cottonwoods to enjoy his catch in their protection.  We started driving again.  Brandy flipped to the raptor section.