Merlin

 Merlin

The other day we had a visit from a wintering falcon. Those of you who have exchanged email with me will know that the Merlin is one of my favorite raptors. Sleek, energetic, handsome, and an accomplished predator of birds.

We've had Merlin in the yard a few times before, but this encounter would turn out to be mystical. Sitting inside the house on a cold March morning, we were awoken by a loud thump on the glass of a window. Worried that we were inadvertent perpetrators of another regrettable avian window kill, we looked outside to find an expired Mourning Dove, who had been attracted to our seed feeder in the yard. Just then, I noticed a male Merlin in the periphery of my vision. It made a tight circle and then  perched high in one of our spruce trees. I knew immediately that the hungry falcon had come in to dive at a juicy prey item, which then launched in panic and met the nearby window in its final act.

The Merlin perched for a while, head-bobbing and looking around, trying to decide if it was safe to pick up breakfast off the snow. He swooped over the dove a few times, looking longingly at the carcass, and then chose a lower perch near the ground. Photographer's luck!

This was an adult male: note the bluish back, tawny colored leg feathers, and whitish tail bands. Merlin is one of two small falcons in North America, being close to an American Kestrel in size. When they fly, though? Totally different animals. The also-gorgeous kestrel flops around in the air, banking left, then right, flapping a few times, gliding, seemingly undecided about his destination. In contrast, the Merlin flies like a bullet shot from a gun: always headed somewhere, always purposeful, wings flapping with pure power, moving rapidly and seriously, flying almost exclusively in a straight line from perch to prey. Despite the similarity in size and shape, I can use style of flight to easily distinguish these two falcons at long distance even when the light is so poor that no colors are apparent. 

It's possible that the Merlin saw us through the window, and was understandably nervous about approaching the carcass of the dove. We watched patiently, and the falcon committed.

"Mantling" his prey, with spread tail

It's been cold and snowy here for a few weeks, and the Merlin was no doubt hungry and intent on its breakfast. He would have to take a chance with the curious human observers.

Ready for launch

Consulting the consummate authority on raptor identification, Brian K. Wheeler, a Mourning Dove would be quite an ambitious catch for a Merlin. They are more accustomed to Horned Larks, waxwings, starlings, and House Sparrows for meals -- the small stuff. As we watched our bird launch with breakfast in tow, we noted some labored wing flapping. This is probably at the limit of what these guys are able to carry off.

An unhappy ex-dove being evacuated by the air patrol. (Apologies, Monty Python.)
A bit of blood can be seen on the falcon's talons and on the dove's neck.

Living in Santa Fe, New Mexico for about three decades, the Merlin became a familiar winter sight. (I'm pretty sure that the large numbers in this county were an unrecognized phenomenon prior to my residence there.) We would frequently (weekly, at least) enjoy good looks as they perched atop trees and power poles around the yard. In that part of the country, two races are commonly encountered. The bird in our yard in northern Vermont is the Taiga race (present year-round). New Mexico has roughly equal numbers of the Prairie Merlin race, a fetching, paler version, blending in better with the perpetual blue skies of that region. (A third race, Black Merlin, is confined to the Pacific coast.)

Prairie Merlin, Santa Fe, NM, Dec 2011.

In my experience, the Taiga race tended to be in more thickly forested areas, including urban Santa Fe. The Prairie race tended to be in open areas of scrub with only scattered trees. But it's not a hard-and-fast rule: they can wander between habitat types, and do so with characteristic velocity! It was always a nice ID challenge to see which race popped up on a day of winter birding in that area.

A brief digression regarding those who are squeamish about raptors exploiting the feeders that draw in winter finches. Some protest the attraction of predators (Cooper's Hawk, Sharp-shinned Hawk, falcons, owls, etc.) to the gangs of feeding birds in the yard. The word "bloodthirsty" has been used in some literature.* To which I say: GET A LIFE, PEOPLE!  Shall we regard the human carving his T-bone steak as "bloodthirsty"? There is absolutely nothing untoward about the occasional raptor (very occasional) visiting our yard to snack on a goldfinch or Downy Woodpecker. Raptors need to eat, too, and few things are as exciting as a close look at one of these guys earning a living, using their astounding aerial skills honed over the millennia. Bring them on, I say!

One memory of this species, from our previous home of Santa Fe. I moved there in mid-winter decades ago, taking up residence in a rental house in the floodplain of the Santa Fe river. A neighbor liked to scatter millet in the back yard, which brought in gobs of Rock Pigeon, House Sparrows, and starlings. I think it was only my second morning there, standing at the back door looking out, when a commotion ensued among the "air rats" gobbling up their morning meal on the ground. (Sorry, purists, but I don't like introduced species, anywhere or anytime.) The whole nasty flock took flight. A little curious, I looked around with my binoculars. There, at the top of a power pole, was a gorgeous Merlin. It kept bending over and jerking its head upward. It dawned on me that it had snatched a Eurasian Starling out of the panicked flock, and was now disemboweling it, just 40 feet or so from where I was standing. It gorged on the hapless exotic for about 20 minutes, apparently enjoying every bit of the fresh meat beneath the layer of gorgeous (not!) black feathers. Only the legs and beak were discarded. What an introduction to Santa Fe!

* Arthur C. Bent, Life Histories of North American Birds of Prey, 1937. Surely an embarrassment to the Smithsonian Institution that published it.