Mystical Merlin Moments

The master magician has crossed my path lately, and raised the hair on my neck each time. The first time was after a walk in the Stebbins Refuge with other members of the Allen Bird Club. Some of us had continued the outing with a stop at the sandbar on the river. Two plump plovers were there, the ones with the strange first name of semipalmated.

Suddenly they rose from the mud, calling their sweet chewee, and the magician appeared from nowhere. He was dark and menacing in his black coat, and he sped straight for one of the plovers, which twisted and turned in desperate flight. They rose high in the air over the river, careening back and forth before us. Suddenly the magician broke off pursuit. He was only showing off, reminding the plover of who was the master.

You know about the peregrine falcon, the large and spectacular hunter of the skies. A single pair has been nesting in downtown Springfield for a number of years. I wrote this spring about the truly American falcon, the kestrel, a small hawk that nests in cavities around grassy fields. There is a third member of this elite group of falcons, slightly larger than the kestrel, but much smaller than the peregrine. This is the merlin, the magician.

On the Canadian tundra and prairies, where the merlin nests, it perches in treetops or on poles, waiting for a meal to appear. Small birds of the open country are its specialty, which it pursues, easily overtaking them with a burst of speed. The smaller male does most of the hunting at this time, bringing food to the incubating female, sitting on an old crow's nest or in a large tree cavity.

When we see them here in New England they are more magical, appearing almost from nowhere and swiftly disappearing into the distance. They seem to like to fly low over the ground, and are powerful enough to cut through the wind with ease. They prefer the coasts, much at home over the surf and beach, where they toy with ocean breezes and sandpipers alike.

A hawkwatch site on the south cost of Long Island counts the most merlins in this area, but a few fly past the watch site in Granville, called Blueberry Hill. I was there the other day when one came by, swift and straight over the treeless hilltop, now here, now gone in the blink of an eye. One of my companions called it a nuclear-powered pigeon, and oddly enough, the merlin once sported the name pigeon hawk. Fission would also be an appropriate energy source for such a mysterious creature.

As powerful as the merlin is, it is also something of an acrobat. My third recent encounter was at Lighthouse Point in New Haven, Connecticut. There a passing merlin put on a different kind of show for a large group of viewers. The watchers stand on an open meadow knoll in the state park, and the hawks fly low, heading off the point and across the harbor mouth.

A steady stream of sharp-shinned hawks and ospreys coursed past. The small sharpshins were flapping and gliding into a westerly wind. The stately ospreys were gliding and circling with seeming disdain of the elements. The merlins usually bullet by with nary a pause. However, the one we saw put on a show before moving on.

It settled into the air currents just ahead, over the eastern marsh, but not hovering like a kestrel with frantically flapping wings. It simply spread its larger pinions and hung there. Its head was bowed, as if greeting the human audience. No, it was reaching down to its large feet, which held a dragonfly. The large insect was devoured in two or three bites. Then the merlin slipped to the side and secured another such morsel, repeating the magic act of eating in mid-air, with never a beat.

After a third tidbit, it left the marsh and flicked its wings. It was over us in a second and then gone. Was it ever there at all, this magician of the air?