"I'm a Chicken Hawk!"

Spring means foxes and fall means young hawks out for their first kills. A couple of years ago, our oldest son could actually call crows--Ernie said he must have managed to hit on the exact sound of an injured crow because they would come sweeping in when the boy cawed. These days, though, "the boy" is now "the young man," and the voice change destroyed his crow call. It's almost impossible to count freely ranging chicks, but we think our young Henry Hawk has only gotten one. He was diving in for a kill the other day when Mother Hen poofed herself up and jumped into the air squawking at him and scared him off. Once again, nature teaches the lesson: No matter how helpless Mama looks, best not mess with the babies.