I’ve walked through prairies before. I knew that pheasants and other birds of the quail persuasion hunker down until you get close, then fly up into your face, shocking you. I knew this. But it happened anyway. I was making my way through knee-high weeds and BAM, a burst of flapping wings. It was a Ring-Necked Pheasant shooting up and flying away. Before I could calm down, it happened again: ANOTHER big bird flapped out of the same spot in the weeds, shocking me again. But it was no pheasant; it was a Red-Tailed Hawk. The pheasant went left and the hawk went right. Suddenly it was quiet. At my feet there was a scatter of soft feathers and red, shining blood. I guess the hawk was on the pheasant and just digging in when I came along. The pheasant seemed okay; its flight was strong and it disappeared into the distance. The hawk went to a nearby treetop and glowered at me. Tough birds, both of them. I figured I’d helped the pheasant. Then I realized I’d interfered with the hawk’s meal. What was I? Rescuer, or pain in the butt? Neither. I was just another agent of chance.
