The number and diversity of raptors that regularly winter in urban Tucson is almost overwhelming: it’s not unusual for me to see a dozen individuals of four or five species on my drive to the office.

For the past two winters, the “usual” birds of prey have been joined by a real rarity, an adult Short-tailed Hawk. The species has been steadily moving north in western Mexico for years, and recent summers have seen pairs occupying territories in Arizona’s Huachucas and Chiricahuas; breeding has been confirmed in at least that latter range. The birds at Barfoot Lookout in the Chiricahuas are reasonably reliable for those willing to make the short, steep hike, but still, it’s a red-letter day anytime you can see this snazzy little buteo.

Even more so in the winter. The Tucson bird, discovered by Dave Stejskal, spends most of its time in the air, as is the species’ wont, and the first view Darlene and I had of it over Wednesday’s lunch break was not great.

A little patience, however, and the celebrihawk came in much closer, stopping to kite and hover in the wind just above the eucalyptus and Italian cypress of the neighborhood it now owns.

To our amazement, the lovely creature decided to land in the tallest of the trees, where its creamy underparts and rusty highlights helped it vanish against the eucalyptus bark. Should we leave, satisfied that we had for some reason been found worthy?

No, not quite yet.

Apparently craving even more adoration (who doesn’t?), the hawk decidled to sidle (happy typo, that one) out into the open, where it perched for 15 minutes, preening and fluffing and ignoring the Northern Mockingbirds and Lesser Goldfinches lower in the tree. And now it truly couldn’t get any better, and when the bird took off low and fast to the northeast, we left, too. One of the best lunches I’d had in a long time!

As a child, I spent an inordinate, and probably unhealthy, amount of time worrying about the inadequacy of language: how could I possibly describe fully, accurately, properly that cloud? Graduate school in the 1980s largely assuaged my anxieties–why fret if there’s no reality outside of language?–but every once in a while that vexingly existent outside world pops up again, and with it my dread of the incommensurateness of words and experience.

It happened again this afternoon on my way home from the office. There’s been an adult Peregrine Falcon hanging out at the corner of River and First, less than a mile from home; urban Peregrines are a happy fact of life here in Tucson, particularly in the winter, a nice distraction from the annoyances of the commute. This evening, as I lingered at the last red light of my drive, I saw a smallish bird high over the intersection. I wasn’t sure then, and now never will be, what it was, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a large dark shape flap towards it, half-turn, extend a great foot, and take the little bird out of the sky. The Peregrine then flew off, still clutching its dinner.

When I started breathing again, I told myself that that had been one of the most dramatic falcon captures I’d ever witnessed. But now that I think about it, the word is wrong (as all words must be faced with something so real as that). What startled and amazed and chilled me was the utter absence of drama, the easy skill and the virtually unnoticeable speed with which the Peregrine came down from the foothills, a quarter mile, a mile, more?, away to simply but, shall we say, definitively enact the wonder it performs every day, without thought, without care. So unlike writing!

A Peregrine Falcon over the Pembrokeshire Coast this summer.