It’s Tucson’s Spring when snowballs fall. From tallest heights of towering palms, and Sycamore, Eucalyptus and Piñon Pine.For up above in crowded nests, young owlets, Cooper’s, and Red Tails grow round and downy feathered and hot from such an ethereal perch.Crazy though it seems they leap, a long, death defying plummet to land below in cooler climes.And cry, aloud for parent’s care, for food, and training of what it means to be a bird of prey.Alas, not all will land unscathed and fortunate few are found and saved by loving hands who rescue.It is to this charge most seriously, each nurturing hand will attempt to be their surrogate. We re-nest those who fall unscathed, while camouflaged in Gilly suit, suspending speech, we feed, we clean and tend to each downy chick, according to it’s need.And as they grow and feathers sprout and wings unfold to thrice their size each little snowball morphs into an apex predator of the sky. Until the day when full of flight and known to hunt, they are returned to nature’s bower to be what destiny prescribed they be, wild and free.
