Living with the hawk by Robert Currie Read Free Book Online Page A

shaking on a bare mattress, let him suffer the way he ought to. But I left the room without another word.
    He had no idea I’d been in Foster’s yard that night, no idea I’d seen exactly what he’d done.

    I might have been grounded, but that didn’t get me out of helping my mother with the dishes after lunch. She said the dishwasher was full, she’d wash these and I could darn well dry, it would do me good to help out around the house. While she filled the sink with water, I could feel her stealing glances at the bruise on my cheek. I kept my eyes out the window, the backyard lawn covered with a crust of snow, the sky overcast, as gloomy as I felt.
    â€œThere goes the squirrel,” said my mother, raising a soapy hand to point. Heading for the neighbour’s yard, the red squirrel ran along the telephone wire, a circus acrobat, his bushy flag streaming behind him. He disappeared beyond the pine tree in the next yard.
    â€œI didn’t see him at the feeder,” she added. I kept my mouth shut. Bloody squirrel was as big a show-off as Jordan Phelps. We’d often find him dangling upside down from the lowest branch of the maple, the bird feeder hanging crooked from his weight, his front paws dipping into the tray, retrieving a single oiled sunflower seed, raising it to his mouth.
    â€œMust’ve been there,” she said, nodding at the feeder, ignoring my silence. No birds in the tray. It hung motionless, its green plastic roof speckled white with bird shit, its transparent walls revealing that it was still more than half full of seeds. Beneath the feeder the snow was dark with broken shells. I suppose she’d want me to get out there and shovel them into a garbage bag before a wind scattered them across the yard.
    â€œAll the birds are gone,” she said.
    I studied the maple, its branches bare except for a host of pale yellow seeds that hung like miniature propellers on the ends of southern branches.
    Usually when the squirrel was feeding, we’d see the birds perched on higher branches, heads cocked, waiting until the feeder was free, sparrows mostly, but a lot of finches too. Sometimes a pair of chickadees would dart from branch to branch, one of them dropping to the feeder tray, snagging a seed and darting off again, the other following right away, first to the feeder, then flitting out of sight. Often on the ground there’d be juncos, their backs dark as slate, pecking through the mess of shells for seeds spilled by frenzied sparrows. Once a larger bird landed on the tray, its size at least three times that of a sparrow, the feeder tipping beneath it. It was so big it had to sit sideways on the tray. A flicker, my mother said, you could tell by its black crescent bib, the crimson patch on the nape of its neck.
    â€œThe squirrel must’ve made a run at some of them,” she said, “chased them all away.”
    But, no, here was a single bird, hopping from branch to branch, heading for the feeder, no sign of colour on its breast or throat, nothing but a sparrow. It landed on the feeder tray, ducked its head, began to eat.
    â€œLucky bird,” I said. I thought I better say something. “He’s got the feeder all to himself.”
    I heard her gasp before I saw what was coming, the sparrow darting off the feeder, flying straight at our window, a hawk right behind it. Just before the sparrow struck the glass, it veered to the right, and I swear its face was so close to mine I could see panic written there. The hawk veered too, and they both were out of sight. A second later they were back, the sparrow fleeing, swerving, wings frantic, the hawk swooping after it, plucking it from the air, flying up into the maple.
    Beside me, I heard my mother moan. Her hand was at her mouth, suds dripping from her chin.
    I heaved the window open, leaned toward the screen. “Hey,” I shouted. “Get out of here.” Immediately felt foolish, the damage