In one study cited by the Birds of North America account, an average
of three fresh green sprigs were delivered to the nest every day.
The female broad-winged hawk lays from one to four eggs, most often
two or three. They are white, cream or off-white with brownish or
various colored markings, and are incubated mostly by the female.
The males bring food and incubate for brief periods when the females
leave the nest. The eggs hatch in about 28 to 31 days, and the young
birds are ready to leave the nest in about 30 more days after hatching.
In the woods where we lived, Red-shouldered hawks also nested, and
we frequently heard their loud keee-yer! and saw them perched on
a low branch or flying low through the understory, weaving through
the trunks of the hickories and oaks with amazing skill. The red-shouldered
hawks were larger and more flamboyant, more noticeable than the broad-wings.
I often saw the two species soaring at the same time and in the same
general area, without any obvious interaction, but on one occasion,
I watched a particularly interesting encounter.
It was late in the morning on a hot, steamy, buggy day when the
sun was struggling to come out after several days of rain. The rasping
chorus of cicadas rose and fell like the sound of waves on a beach.
A red-eyed vireo sang, and from down near the creek came the deep
drum of a woodpecker. A mosquito whined around my ear. A red-shouldered
hawk, calling a sharp, loud keeee-yer! flew low through the treetops
and eastward, with a whistling broad-winged hawk close behind it,
and they both disappeared over the trees.
As I walked uphill along the edge of the woods, to see if I could
find them, I passed black-winged dragonflies and heard the staccato
pik-a-tuk of a summer tanager. The sky was slowly but steadily clearing,
damp blue with a wide band of white clouds like tire-tracks in the
west. Suddenly, two red-shouldered hawks and onebBroad-winged hawk
flew in low over the treetops again, and all three settled in an
area of large pines, several feet apart from each other. I could
see both of the red-shouldered hawks, though they were well back
in the pines, but could not see the broad-winged, even though I could
tell it was nearby. For several minutes they stayed there, all crying
- keeee-yer! keeee-yer! and peeeeeeee-eeee! over and over, but always
one at a time, as if they were having a major, loud and passionate
dispute that remained at least somewhat courteous or within some
kind of understood bounds. After a while, they all flew again, but
stayed low and did not go far before settling again in the trees
and continuing to carry on their dispute.
I don't know for sure, but - judging in part from the area in which
this happened and the time of season when it happened - I suspect
that the broad-winged hawk was chasing the two red-shouldered hawks
away from its nest area and its still-vulnerable young. It was about
the time when the young broad-winged hawks might have been leaving
the nest. I wish I knew the whole story, the drama behind this small
glimpse of action - it was like seeing a clip of a movie that made
me want to see the whole thing. Had the red-shouldered hawks tried
to take one of the broad-winged juveniles? Had they succeeded? I'll
never know.
There's a great deal about the lives of the broad-winged hawks in
our woods that I'll never know. What I learned about them came in
broken pieces, an observation here and there. We were aware of their
presence all day every day that second year, mostly from their calls.
Late in the summer, we often found a juvenile perched, but it was
unusual for us to see an adult perching - I think they usually stayed
very well screened - and for this reason, one sighting stands out
in my memory.
About 5:30 one afternoon, a sudden fierce but brief thunderstorm
passed through, darkening the sky, tossing trees and green leaves
around in a furious wind, and pouring rain in a gray blur for about
an hour. When it was over, my husband and I walked outside to enjoy
the rain-cooled air. Water dripped from the trees all around so steadily
it sounded like more rain. The sky was clearing from the west. The
low, sinking sun cast a strange, dramatic gold and rose light on
the dark purple of the storm clouds retreating in the east, and lighting
the tops of the hardwood trees a brilliant wet green. Against this
background, we saw a mature broad-winged hawk perched in the top
of a tall dead pine where red-bellied woodpeckers had nested a few
weeks earlier.
The hawk faced southwest, toward the setting sun, and sat with black
and white striped tail spread wide and both wings held out in an
awkward-looking cupped shape, as if to dry itself after the rain.
Its head was chocolate brown and well-defined against the sharply-lit
gray sky, hatchet-shaped and fierce. It turned its head one way and
another, but did not change the position of its body, wings or tail.
Its breast was heavily streaked with reddish brown. At first the
hawk was silent, but after a few minutes, it whistled, and once started,
it whistled repeatedly, opening its bill and calling again and again
in the high, strained-sounding whistle. We could not hear an answering
call. After about ten minutes, it spread its wings and dropped off
toward the east, gliding at treetop level and then below, through
the trees, still whistling, until it sounded as if it had landed
again not too far away.
Although I was sure the broad-winged hawks had nested somewhere
near our house, I had no idea just how close they were. I assumed
the nest would be well hidden deep in the woods, and that it wouldn't
be easy to find. So I never tried. I was busy with other things,
and content to hear and see them as often as we did. It was only
by chance that I discovered the nest in mid July. Around the middle
of the afternoon, I had taken a three-legged stool to a spot where
I could study an interesting patch of weeds and grasses with a variety
of plant species, spiders and flying insects. On summer days when
not much seems to be happening in the woods, the weedy areas around
the edges of the woods often are full of activity. Watching grasshoppers,
beetles, spiders, yellowjackets, solitary wasps, bees, dragonflies,
ants, butterflies and lizards requires a good change in perspective
from my usual habit of focusing on birds.
It was hot and humid, of course, and I was sitting on my stool and
sweating, watching a black and green dragonfly on a leaf of a small
sweet gum, when I heard the whistle of a broad-winged hawk approaching.
There was nothing unusual about that - but as the hawk entered the
trees it was met by a small flurry of whistles from two or three
or more voices. It clearly sounded like the response of young birds
in a nest when a parent arrives with food. It seemed late in the
year for nestlings - but it got my attention. I got up from my stool
and walked closer to the edge of the woods. At first, I could see
nothing, but I followed the voices of continued whistling and found
two mature broad-winged hawks perched high among the foliage. And
then I saw the nest. It was tucked in a three-way fork of a tall
sweet gum, maybe 80 feet up. For several minutes, the two adults
sat nearby and whistled, then they left. For almost an hour after
that, I sat at the edge of the woods where I could see the nest,
and watched and waited. I did not see any sign of birds in the nest,
and the adults did not return to feed them while I was watching,
though I did see one of them arrive, uncharacteristically quiet,
and settle nearby. I finally decided that they must be disturbed
by my presence and left - even though the nest was so close to our
house and to where we were outside working almost every day that
I thought they must be fairly used to having us around. On the other
hand, I think it's not unreasonable to suppose that hawks might be
able to tell the difference between people who are busy with their
own business, and one person who is sitting and doing nothing else
but watching their nest.
That day was July 15. For a week after that we were out of town
on a trip, so I couldn't watch closely and don't know if there might,
in fact, have been young ones still in the nest. It's possible, but
from what I learned later, it seems more likely that what I heard
was adults feeding one or two young hawks that had left the nest
but were staying close to it.
"Even when they have become fairly well fledged," says
Burns, "one or the other of the birds seem always in attendance
in a nearby tree top. The whistled protest of the parents as they
shadow one through the woods is all the hint one often has of their
presence and unceasing vigilance. How long they are guarded after
leaving the nest, I am unable to say, but for a week or two after
the nest is vacated, a protesting whistle from a hidden form in the
neighboring foliage informs one of the jealous care of the juveniles
doubtless also hidden nearby."[8]
Certainly by the time we returned from our trip and I went out to
check on our hawks again, late in the day on July 22, the young were
out of the nest. Around 6:00 pm, with temperatures still in the 90s,
I stood at the edge of the woods with my binoculars - at that time
I didn't own a scope - exploring the area around the nest. I had
to watch my step to avoid several yellowjacket nests that peppered
the edge of the woods in just the area where I needed to stand to
get the best view. I had heard no whistling, but quickly spotted
a hawk perched in a hickory tree that stood beside the sweet gum
with the nest. It was a juvenile, with a creamy white, relatively
unstreaked breast, chocolate brown back and wings, and the shadows
of striping on the tail, darker brown on brown. On its back, a faint
white specking was visible beneath the dark feathers.
For several minutes, the young hawk sat silent on the branch. It
turned its head frequently, sometimes seeming to look almost directly
backward. Insects flew around it, and it shook and ruffled its feathers
as if to discourage them. At least once, it snapped up one of the
insects in its beak. After a while, another broad-winged hawk began
to call from not far away. It whistled several times before the one
I was watching answered, but once it did, they called back and forth.
Finally, the young hawk I was watching flew to join the other. They
discussed something for maybe three or four minutes, then they both
flew away.
I waited. About ten minutes later, two hawks returned to the branches
of trees on either side of the nest. They flew in silently, and sat
without calling at all. I waited for several more minutes, until
I thought again that I must be disturbing them, so I walked away
and sat down again on a bench near our house, about a hundred yards
away from the nest area. No sooner had I sat down - literally immediately
- than I saw two hawks fly to the area of the nest from trees on
the opposite side of the driveway, whistling their calls as they
flew. I could hear, even from where I sat, a brief flurry of other
whistles mingled with theirs for a few seconds. The calls of two
hawks - which I now felt sure were the parents - continued near the
nest for several minutes more.
For the next two or three weeks, we saw and heard a juvenile hawk
around the nest area and around our house often, and several more
times heard what I believe were the sounds of parents feeding the
young. Once, I saw a young hawk on the ground, maybe chasing an insect,
and it did not fly up until I got quite close, and even then, only
flew to a low branch nearby. I don't know for sure if there was only
one juvenile, or one or two more. I believe I saw two young ones
and two adults at the same time, but because of the way they could
come and go in the trees so quietly, it was hard to keep track of
them and would have been easy to mistake one for another. So that's
another thing I'll never know for sure.
In August of that year, my husband and I moved away from our home
in the woods. I was sorry to leave, for many reasons. The story of
the broad-winged hawks, like the stories of many other parts of the
woodland community I had only barely begun to explore, stops suddenly
and feels unfinished.
I went back once, three summers later, and walked a "nature
trail" through a subdivision near the land where the hawks had
nested, but did not find them or hear their calls. A number of new
houses had gone up in the area, and construction was still going
on nearby - but there were still enough tall trees and wooded area
so that they might have been there. After three summers of unusual
drought and heat, however, the wetland where they used to hunt had
almost completely dried up, another discouraging sign. Tall grasses
and small trees covered the area where the first pond used to stand,
though I hoped some of the other flooded areas between there and
the river might remain.
In June 2003, on a breeding bird count for the Oconee Rivers Audubon
Society, my team saw a pair of broad-winged hawks soaring and calling
in a different area, several miles away in a neighboring county,
but at least we had proof of their nesting in the region, and two
birders more experienced than I am confirmed the sighting.
In that particular patch of woods, I do not know if the strange,
high whistle of the broad-winged hawks is still heard, if it still
weaves together the fabric of the woodland community. I wonder about
that - but I also wonder how many other broad-winged hawks might
nest in this area, and if so, where are they? The southern woods
in mid-summer keep their secrets well. There are many things we do
not know about what lives and happens there.
[8]F.L.
Burns, "A monograph of the Broad-winged Hawk."
Copyright © 2009 Sigrid Sanders| All Rights Reserved