King of the Pond

King of the Pond

Noel Laflin

9-16-15

Belted Kingfisher

Whenever a Cooper’s hawk comes swooping down to our little neighborhood pond out here in El Modena, the doves and pigeons scatter promptly, diving for the cover of oak, pepper, and sycamore trees like there’s no tomorrow.  It’s somewhat reminiscent of the scene from Blazing Saddles when the townsfolk first spot Mongo riding into Rock Ridge atop a giant ox.

 

Unlike the hapless frontier town in Mel Brooks’ movie, our pond does have a natural civil defense system in place.  It’s called the mocking bird.  His angry screech and kamikaze dive bombing maneuvers against intruding predators usually provide the other birds time to fly for shelter.  It also alerts this hapless amateur bird watcher that a battle is normally brewing just overhead.

The alarm sounded today was that of a different guy, however; although it still gave me time to note the scattered flight of doves, pigeons, blue birds and such just as a young hawk zipped across the park, taking refuge in a sycamore tree.

The new sheriff in town sounding the alarm was the resident black and white belted kingfisher – a fine feathered fellow who’d taken up residence over the summer.  He’s a quick little character and difficult to photograph.  But he’s easy to spot with his narrow sharp beak, Don King-like hairdo, and his distinctive rattle of a cry as he skips and dives above the water in search of a meal.

Well, today, that rattle was in overdrive as it seems that he was the intended dinner for the Cooper’s hawk – at least if the hawk had his druthers.

And sure enough, his intentions were made clear as the chase was soon on.  The hawk leapt from the tree and went for the smaller bird as he made a pass over the pond.  The raptor did not even come close.  Both birds landed on opposite sides of the fence glaring at one another.

The king then made a second pass over the pond, rattling his war cry as he flew, daring the young hawk – or so it would appear – to give chase once more.  The hawk obliged and dove for the swift little guy.  He missed.  It was pretty pathetic.

 

Thus, five or six attempts in all were made in vain before the hawk gave up and flew westward.  The kingfisher joyfully swooped and somersaulted across the water before making a beeline for a very tall sycamore tree of his own. You could have heard his triumphant rattle of a cry from a mile away.

And just like that, the other feathered townsfolk sheepishly flew from their own respective hiding places and resumed their perching along the fence or pecking the ground for grubs and seed.

Score one for the smart little king of a sheriff and zip for Mongo once more.

And the outcome was not even predicated on an exploding box of candy.

Cooper's Hawk