On Closer Reflection

Rebecca Sonniksen

March 2020 the pandemic had begun, when a friend suggested we watch the live stream of the Clark County Public Utilities Osprey Watch. We enjoy birdwatching but this was different. This was an up-close look at a bird we knew only from its “M” shaped wings silhouetted against the sky.  According to audubon.org, the Osprey is a very distinct fish-hawk, formerly classified with other hawks but now in a separate family. It is also known as the sea hawk. 

Below: The Last Screen Shot before the chick died of heat exhaustion.

It was perfect pandemic entertainment and topic of conversation with our friend as we’d check the wellbeing of “our” birds. How’s the nest remodeling going? Or, Did you see that huge stick Dad carried into the nest?  We’d share our observations from our special vantage point above the nest.  We agreed that Dad was into the large scale pieces, as he pivoted around the nest barely missing Mom. Finally satisfied it didn’t matter if it didn’t fit, he’d wedge it on top of the woven limbs and fly off, leaving Mom to rearrange it with a touch of moss and lichen. 

They had three eggs, and overall it was a surprisingly equal partnership. Mom and Dad took turns sitting on the nest and, after the chicks hatched, alternated watching them. Dad was an impressive fish provider, easily two a day, and Mom served it up. We’d fuss about the last born and smallest chick not getting his fair share, but it seemed to work out.  Eventually the fledglings left and all was well. 

So, this year when our friend texted in late March, “I think they’ve returned to the nest,” we tuned in for season two.  Not sure if it was last year’s pair. Could it be an offspring? This couple was certainly more laid back and less adept at nest rebuilding. They had three eggs, but only two hatched. The wait between fish seemed longer, but the chicks were thriving and Mom and Dad were busy.  

During the week of our 110+ degree temperatures,  we got a text from our friend saying, “I think they are taking off.” The fledglings were leaving the nest.  We turned to the webcam to see one chick was gone and we assumed had made the leap. Its sibling, however, was tottering on the edge with his downy wings flapping in the hot wind. 

Mom, scanning the sky and calling for her lost one, extended her majestic wing to wrap the remaining chick close to her, protecting him from the brutal heat. Maybe she was comforting him, It’s okay. Now isn’t a good time to jump out of the nest. Wait with me. That was the last we saw them together. (It’s the picture shown here.)  When we checked back an hour later the webcam was off and the screen was dark. 

The next day an email sent from the Clark Public Utilities, explained, “the resident osprey pair sadly lost their two chicks to the extreme temperatures.” They went on to say, “We know that seeing the reality of nature can be upsetting for some so we’ve turned off the live stream to the public while nature runs its course. ….we are hands-off observers.”

So this makes me wonder, how much do I want to see up close? In a rural environment surrounded by “nature,” it’s hard not to watch and to wonder sometimes how we might be responsible. Sometimes it’s easier to see an animal as a “species,” part of a flock, a herd, not as an individual creature with attachments. 

I think this applies to most of life. The closer we look, the more we care, the harder to dismiss what we might not understand, what might make us sad or uncomfortable . 

Did Osprey mom grieve for the loss of her chicks? I don’t know. Did she shelter her chick under her feathery embrace until he died? They were right to turn off the video. It’s not easy to see the inevitable loss life brings. But, I’m glad I had the chance to witness this winged gesture of beauty and grace. 

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