A tractor seat is a great place for thinking and observing - by Al Huseby
If you’re cultivating corn or baling hay most of your thinking and observing should be focused on business at hand. But if you’re mowing pasture the attention to crop and machinery is not as critical, and your eye and mind can wander a bit.
My usual bumper crop of thistle, burdock, wild parsnip, and yarrow overwhelms my grasses and it’s time to mow again. I hear nothing but the sound of the diesel and the clatter of the mower to accompany my endless rounds. But then a pair of barn swallows joins me, knowing I’ll be stirring up lots of insects for them to eat. Soon they are joined by a whole squadron, mouths wide, swooping up their prey. I admire the regal hawk soaring on summer thermals, and the chickadee, cheerful and enthusiastic on the coldest winter days. But I enjoy the pure athleticism and grace of the swallows, changing direction- up, down, sideways, zipping by me faster than I can believe, and then accelerating to an even greater speed. Now there are twenty or more, but they’re impossible to count, swooping, skimming, climbing and diving in all directions. They are tireless and I never tire of watching them.
Surely some of them are the youngsters I saw three weeks ago perched on the fence that crosses Kinney Creek. They already had good flight skills, but mom and dad were helping out with the groceries. I was hauling limestone to shore up the fence line, but that could wait. I turned the tractor off and watched as the parents fed their five young. Mom paused in midair to offer an insect to the second from the left, then a feeding for the one on the left followed by two more feedings to the second from the left. The unfed three showed remarkable patience- no open mouth begging or trying to get to the front of the line. Maybe they had already been fed. Observation is watching with a purpose and usually takes a lot of time. I had to unload my rock so my observation ended. I knew no young swallows would die of starvation for lack of insects along Kinney Creek.
Now half the pasture was mowed and the swallows continued to hunt with me, but now I was joined by a larger hunter that landed on a bare branch of a tall burr oak at the north end of the pasture. It was a Swainson’s hawk, a soft gray color with a reddish band over her white breast. They are hunters of the plains and she was at the far eastern boundary of their range. When I made the next round there were two crows harassing her as is their habit. She was too regal to be bothered by their antics, and their silliness didn’t even warrant a glance in their direction. As I approached on each round the crows would fly off, but she remained. Then she disappeared, and the next time I saw her she was on the ground. She flew off with empty talons- the meadow vole she was after had escaped. I watched her as she soared higher and higher, and soon her incredible eyesight spotted another target. She circled- watching and losing altitude. Now she was only ten feet off the ground- silent, motionless except for treading air with her wings. Then she pounced. This time a vole was in her grasp as she lifted off. I watched her hunt for most of the afternoon and tried to keep an account of her success ratio. I saw two or possibly three kills for ten attempts. I’m fortunate to have enough time to make these important observations.
Those who farm small grain or hay (not row crops like corn and soybeans) will see a lot of meadow voles. We always called them field mice when I was growing up on the farm, and I suppose most farmers still use that name. But mice are long tailed, big eyed, big eared creatures. Voles are their chubby, short tailed, small eared, nearsighted cousins. Voles aren’t quite as fast and make up a good portion of the diet of hawks and other predators.
I finish my last round and park my tractor in the barn. Some of the swallows join me. They were hatched here in the mud nests attached to the rafters. The hawk will return to her nest of fledglings to rest for tomorrows hunt. The smart, talkative crows will join hundreds of their kind in some wooded area to discuss the day’s adventures before turning in for the night. The voles will burrow in their nests in the grass, perhaps feeling more vulnerable in the clipped pasture. And I will fall asleep, happy with what I’ve seen today and grateful to have creeks and forests and meadows to enjoy.
-Al Huseby, March 23, 2014
My usual bumper crop of thistle, burdock, wild parsnip, and yarrow overwhelms my grasses and it’s time to mow again. I hear nothing but the sound of the diesel and the clatter of the mower to accompany my endless rounds. But then a pair of barn swallows joins me, knowing I’ll be stirring up lots of insects for them to eat. Soon they are joined by a whole squadron, mouths wide, swooping up their prey. I admire the regal hawk soaring on summer thermals, and the chickadee, cheerful and enthusiastic on the coldest winter days. But I enjoy the pure athleticism and grace of the swallows, changing direction- up, down, sideways, zipping by me faster than I can believe, and then accelerating to an even greater speed. Now there are twenty or more, but they’re impossible to count, swooping, skimming, climbing and diving in all directions. They are tireless and I never tire of watching them.
Surely some of them are the youngsters I saw three weeks ago perched on the fence that crosses Kinney Creek. They already had good flight skills, but mom and dad were helping out with the groceries. I was hauling limestone to shore up the fence line, but that could wait. I turned the tractor off and watched as the parents fed their five young. Mom paused in midair to offer an insect to the second from the left, then a feeding for the one on the left followed by two more feedings to the second from the left. The unfed three showed remarkable patience- no open mouth begging or trying to get to the front of the line. Maybe they had already been fed. Observation is watching with a purpose and usually takes a lot of time. I had to unload my rock so my observation ended. I knew no young swallows would die of starvation for lack of insects along Kinney Creek.
Now half the pasture was mowed and the swallows continued to hunt with me, but now I was joined by a larger hunter that landed on a bare branch of a tall burr oak at the north end of the pasture. It was a Swainson’s hawk, a soft gray color with a reddish band over her white breast. They are hunters of the plains and she was at the far eastern boundary of their range. When I made the next round there were two crows harassing her as is their habit. She was too regal to be bothered by their antics, and their silliness didn’t even warrant a glance in their direction. As I approached on each round the crows would fly off, but she remained. Then she disappeared, and the next time I saw her she was on the ground. She flew off with empty talons- the meadow vole she was after had escaped. I watched her as she soared higher and higher, and soon her incredible eyesight spotted another target. She circled- watching and losing altitude. Now she was only ten feet off the ground- silent, motionless except for treading air with her wings. Then she pounced. This time a vole was in her grasp as she lifted off. I watched her hunt for most of the afternoon and tried to keep an account of her success ratio. I saw two or possibly three kills for ten attempts. I’m fortunate to have enough time to make these important observations.
Those who farm small grain or hay (not row crops like corn and soybeans) will see a lot of meadow voles. We always called them field mice when I was growing up on the farm, and I suppose most farmers still use that name. But mice are long tailed, big eyed, big eared creatures. Voles are their chubby, short tailed, small eared, nearsighted cousins. Voles aren’t quite as fast and make up a good portion of the diet of hawks and other predators.
I finish my last round and park my tractor in the barn. Some of the swallows join me. They were hatched here in the mud nests attached to the rafters. The hawk will return to her nest of fledglings to rest for tomorrows hunt. The smart, talkative crows will join hundreds of their kind in some wooded area to discuss the day’s adventures before turning in for the night. The voles will burrow in their nests in the grass, perhaps feeling more vulnerable in the clipped pasture. And I will fall asleep, happy with what I’ve seen today and grateful to have creeks and forests and meadows to enjoy.
-Al Huseby, March 23, 2014