I had every intention of "tying up loose ends" and "organizing my life" over the weekend. With such well-defined and attainable goals (kidding), it's a wonder I get anywhere at all ...
Mr. Betty and I did get to Sachuest Point on Saturday. It was a warmish blue-sky day, the kind of day that draws you/me/us outside no matter what we really should be doing. And we really should have ridden our bicycles — it's only a few miles away, and it was almost that warm — but didn't. Good thing, too, because we would have missed it.
Missed what?? (You know where this is headed ...)
Before we even hit the parking lot, cars were pulling over every which way and people were scrambling out to look at ... what was that on top of the flagpole??
We're not birders, but there were birders aplenty, with long lenses (optics??) and fancy cameras. And considerable excitement. The consensus seemed to be that it was not a Red-tailed or a Rough-legged; it was an Immature.
I asked the obvious question of the guy standing next to me: "An immature what??"
An immature Red-tailed who hadn't developed his red tail — maybe. But I was equally fascinated by the use of "immature" as a noun ...
So while people gawked and squawked, the hawk just sat/stood there, on top of the flagpole, with nary a twitch. He was gawking at something else, as became apparent, as he suddenly nosedived (nosedove??) into the adjacent grass where he stood more-or-less motionless for another long while in order to strangle — patiently — some small furry creature under his death-grip feet. I never saw the creature, if I'm being honest (I do try), but his doom was the crowd's assumption. Poor thing.
The bird had not the slightest concern that he had an audience ...
Nor did the deer, a whole pack/herd/family of them, calmly munching across the way.
And it got me thinking about the beauty of modest goals — as long as there's food on the table, or in the field, or wherever. And the bizarre concurrence of the natural (free??) and so-called "civilized" worlds in one world. And the general absurdity of giving a hoot about what people think, even if one's legs are hairy or "rough," as the case may be ...
Immaturity aside, if it were up to me, I'd call those legs "fluffy" ...
