u/Big_Office_4257

All six of my peregrine falcons are huddled together in the furthest corner of their flight pen. One of them usually sticks to an area closest to the entry gate.
 He figured out that the noise from my feet scraping against the mixed flint and clay pebbles means that he can get a rat before anyone else does. 
None of them have come out of the pen in two days. Not even to drink. 

Just outside the gate on the damp soil is a feather half the size of my arm. 

On the ground next to it is a footprint, about twelve inches long. Two toes pressed deep in the wet ground, set about an inch apart. None of my ratites were anywhere near the raptor aviary. I made sure of it. 

Ostriches have a footprint that superficially matches what I’m looking at, but their toes are asymmetrical. These aren’t. Far too long and pressed in too deep to be from an ostrich. Feather isn’t ratite either. Their feathers are fluffier, softer. Meant more for insulation. They don’t have the interlocking barbs you see in flight feathers.

I try again to get them to drink. 

Peregrine falcons do not gather, even within their own species, and all of mine perceived a threat at the same time. The state they’re in is called tonic immobility. I’ve only ever seen it when I have them wrapped in a towel. 

I carefully slip the feather into my day pack. In the distance, echoing off the canyons, is the sound of a peregrine, repeated six times. 

It takes me about an hour to find a working trail camera. I do have some good ones already deployed on the property,which are drilled directly into a few mountain mahogany trees. Very secure, as well as a major pain in the ass to unmount. I never bothered getting any of those fancier ones, so all the ones in storage have been in there since ‘99. You get what you pay for.

In the meantime, I work on moving my peregrines indoors. The clinic has a decent amount of indoor space, provided there’s room for six birds of course. Each crate needs to be prepared: bedding, shallow water dishes, and a cover to block light out. I don’t need them to be more stressed out than they already are.

One by one, I prep to transport. It was hell getting them into the flight pen to begin with, so I’m surprised at just how docile they are right now. They aren’t posturing. They aren’t even hissing. It’s as if they just gave up. 

I go for my greediest eater first, who also happens to give me the most trouble when it comes to routine exams. Not an ounce of fight in him this time. He’s   shaking as I gently wrap him in the towel. Double gloved, since even with the odd behavior I don’t trust him not to stick me. In the kennel he goes. 

One after the other, the same. There is a pattern I’m noticing. When I have them cupped in my hands in the towel, all of them are looking the same way, toward a patch of thick juniper down the canyon. The same one I hike every morning.  

All six are in their kennels now.  I’m sitting down to start the intake assessments when I hear it. The shift of feet on a kennel floor. The small splash of wings into a water dish. After two days of nothing, they’re moving.  I won’t have to start fluids on any of them tonight. 

The trail camera I pointed at the flight pen hasn’t captured anything anomalous yet. The motion sensor has been triggering, and I’ve pulled the SD card every half hour.  There are forty-three images on it. Forty-one of them are empty frames. The other two are a coyote and a bobcat. 

Both animals are running. Ears pointed backwards and flat, kicking up dust behind them. 

I open my day pack and pull the feather out. The quill itself is heavier than it should be, and it has a matte black coloration, with a slight iridescent finish. On the tip of the quill, is a leathery piece of flesh that is slightly shredded. Whatever this was, was in the middle of preening, which means that most likely isn’t the only feather out there.  

I finish my intake notes. All the birds are settled as best they can be. Plenty of water, a couple frozen rats for them to gnaw on. Lacing up my boots, I decide it’s time to check the surrounding area where that coyote and bobcat fled from. There are some traces of fur along the path in front of the camera, steadily increasing towards the juniper. More signs I didn’t see before. Broken juniper branches. Deep gashes on the trunk, about shoulder height to where I’m standing. Then I hear it. The droning swarm of flies. A few seconds later, a breeze brings a sharp metallic tinge. 

It’s hard to make out what pieces of the bobcat I can discern from down here. As I go over the ridge, I see her. The body is intact along the spine. The belly is open. Most of what was inside her is gone. I see  patches of fur scattered around the carcass, plucked and dropped.  Her head is still attached, although her neck is stripped to the bone in some places. Vertebrae exposed, tear damage along the throat. Two large puncture wounds on her back. 

This isn’t a mountain lion kill. There’s no throat bite. The body hasn’t been dragged anywhere or covered with any debris. The viscera is gone before the muscle. Doesn’t match with a coyote pack either. 
They tear carcasses apart and drag the pieces off. This is too contained.

I’ve watched my own birds eat rabbits this way. Pinned to the ground,ripping chunks of fur out to get closer to vitals. It’s exactly the same.
Then I see another feather. This time a bit smaller. Probably a lesser covert or the shorter end of one of the secondaries. Whatever this was, stood here long enough to preen again. 

I get closer and crouch beside her. The fur on her back is matted. The skin underneath compressed down into a hollow cavity. Two parallel lines pressed deep into her body, with a gap where the inner toe would be. Where the deep puncture sits. 

I straighten myself and re-assess the area. 
The brush around me has gone quiet, and I can hear every branch and leaf that the wind moves. Daylight is fading. Time to go. I’m walking away when the silence is broken by the sound of a bobcat yowling somewhere  in the brush. 

Loud enough that I feel it in my ribs. It has a very low resonance.  A lot more guttural, more mechanical.  
Same as the peregrine calls from this morning. 

I freeze in place. Another yowl. This time it is slightly choppy. A low bellow that flutters and hitches yet still somehow sounds exactly how a bobcat should. 

Off to the right, a third yowl. The pitch is right this time. Smooth, no hitches. This one is answering. 
I hear its slow and deliberate steps as it makes its way closer. It lets out another vocalization, this time a threat assessment.  The response is sharper, yet harder for me to place. It sounds further away but closer at the same time. Echoing through the trees and canyon with the same mechanical vibrato. 

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here. Long enough that the light is gone. Long enough that all I see are stars. I don’t hear the bobcat make another sound. 

Heading back to the clinic now. My phone’s flashlight barely has enough throw, but it’s usable. I don’t want to add a rolled ankle on top of everything else. Every step I take sounds louder than the last, while the rest of the brush remains silent. The flies aren’t even buzzing anymore. I can see the faint glow of the walkway lights that lead to the clinic, through the same patch of juniper the yowls came from.  

I deliberate my steps. Toe to heel, squeezing between branches and slowly letting them come to a resting position. The juniper is thick. I just have to make it through this patch and the rest is a straight shot. Toe to heel. The silence continues.  Crickets  and bullfrogs should be out. There’s usually a wall of them that surrounds you. 

Toe to heel. 
 
The next step is directly on a dead branch. 

My phone goes flying. The screen is still facing up when it lands. Lucky. I freeze again. The beam of the light barely illuminates the base of a tree and the surrounding brush. There are two yellowish gold eye reflections, six feet up, looking right at me.  The shape behind the eyes is too big for what I’m looking at. We’re at a standoff. It doesn’t seem to be actively pursuing me, at least from what I can tell. I feel the balance of my left leg start to give way and I stumble backwards. The head cocks to the side, eyes still fixed on me. Still facing forward. 

It turns to the right. I can make out its profile.
A long tail behind it, feathered along the length. 

The iridescence on the feathers shifts where the light catches them.
It has something in its mouth. A piece of meat. It swallows it the way one of my birds would.
It moves toward me. Past my phone.

I see a sickle shaped claw retract. A scaly foot plants itself in front of the base of the tree, sickle claw held off the ground. 

I don’t move.