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Swainsons Hawk (Buteo swainsoni)

Swainsons Hawk (Buteo swainsoni)_11
Once upon a time, Pueblo Colorado had a steel mill. That time was a while ago and, as often happens, when the largest employer leaves, there’s not a lot left behind. Pueblo has a zoo, which I went there to see but the combination of reduced revenues and the onset of winter meant that many of the animals were off exhibit or no longer there. So instead of spending my day at the zoo as I had planned, I popped next door to their raptor center. The center does rescue work and most of the birds there either couldn’t fly or couldn’t take care of themselves so they’re kept in fairly large enclosures. Some of the photos turned out. A lot didn’t. However, as I taking the photos, one of the rescue workers came out and offered to bring a bird out for me to see close up.

I picked the Swainsons Hawk because I’d never seen one close up.

As is often the case, I picked the most cantankerous creature there, who was hard to catch and spent a lot of time trying to eat my new friend’s fingers. However, every once in a while, the lighting landed at the right time and shots like this came out.

Cactus

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The second invasion was more successful. Instead of blinding the humans, they came at night, armed and armored. Those that ran, tripped and were skewered. Those that fought, fell beneath the onslaught of spines and ever marching roots. The bullets did not stop them, flesh healing over into hardened knots, protecting them againt further violation. They were impervious to drought, to heat. And, as the humans made their planet ever warmer, eventually the next generation of triffids ruled over all.

Ball Python (Python regius)

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It is said that kappa range from the mischievous to the downright evil. They play pranks and murder people, depending on their whim at the time. Their one weakness is a bowl that they keep on (or, in some legends, in) their heads. In this bowl, they store water, which is necessary for movement and life. Should you encounter one, the best method of defense is to be exceedingly polite and exchange a series of bows. Eventually, the kappa will bow low enough that their water spills out and they become frozen in place. At this point you may flee or, if you wish, refill the bowl from a nearby stream, after which the kappa will become your servant.

Over the years, kappa have shed their legs, evolving to protect themselves against the bowing attack. Modern day kappa no longer have the ability to bow and view excessive politeness negatively as it is quite rude to expect them to bow when they cannot. They are, however, still vulnerable to dehydration, as shown here.

American Kestrel (Falco sparverius)

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This is the eye of the American kestrel. According to numerous reports, this eye is capable of seeing an insect that is only 2mm long from the top of an 18m tree.

This being the Internet, however, it is uncertain as to how accurate this figure is, so I went digging for experimental detail. I was unable to find this particular one. However, there is a study by Matthew F. Gaffney and William Hodos in which they anesthetized a kestrel and poked stuff in its eyes. (More scientifically accurate detail here : http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0042698903003043 ), in which they found that there is (potential) conspiracy behind avian vision acuity studies, and data does not always match the reality we live in. This (possibly) represents a scam in which bird scientists bilk the public out of hundreds of dollars to further promote their own research. It’s a travesty (maybe) and we should (perhaps) do something about it.

Alternatively, maybe different birds just have different eyes.

Green Tree Python (Morelia viridis)

It was all about the questions. That’s why. Few understood that, and the many stories about him, changing with each teller, didn’t help matters.

He wasn’t evil. He was curious. Sure, his life had been rife with error, but he prided himself in only making each mistake but once. The one everyone knew, however, he didn’t regret in the least.

In fact, in his long life, there was but one thing he wished to do differently. He thought of his friend, now gone. His friend was the explorer, the combatant. He stood against inequity, fighting all comers, regardless their strength. How often he’d seen his friend crawling home, bleeding, grinning from ear to ear … basking the joy of a fight, though lost, well fought.

He was used to it. He’d spent an eternity, it seemed, cleaning and binding wounds, then, during recuperation, talking philosophy. It all came back to one point of difference. He was cautious, his friend was not. He felt it important to respect power. Pain told you you’d overstepped your bounds. It let you know that you’d done wrong. He agreed that it was important to fight, but you should fight smart and only when you must.

His friend disagreed. He always said if you didn’t fight, you weren’t oppressed by another’s power but by your own fear. Only through fighting could you know, with certainty, the extent of that power. Only through constant testing could you improve, he said. Only by getting better, however long that took, could you eventually win.

That was the line, then, between them. His friend learned his limits by fighting while he learned by questioning. So when that fateful day came, his friend, the fighter, joined the revolution and he stayed behind asking about necessity, whether there was another way. His friend lost, as he often did. This time, though, he did not come home.

Since then, lonely, he had wandered asking questions. He learned from others, asking why they thought as they did, why they did as they did, particularly probing into areas where thought and action were in conflict. That was his reason for being … the questions.

“Why do you believe that?”
“What makes you think that way?”
“Who told you?”
“Were they right?”
“How can you know?”

Eons he had spent, trying to learn the truth, trying to find that line, behind which he could act and past which he could not … identifying choices, working with others to build a better understanding of the world. If he could know, truly know, maybe he could stop living in the past. Could his presence in the revolution have made the difference … if not to win, then maybe to plead on behalf of his friend, so they would still be together.

That was what kept him from sleep. Where was the line between action and inaction? Had he been wrong? Had his friend? Had they been predestined to be separated or had there been a choice? Had me made the wrong one?

Every minute of every day, he lived under the weight of the questions, never resolved, always pressing, pressing, pressing him down into the dust.

That thing with the tree? That was nothing.

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