http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/bald-eagle-scavenger-food/

Capture the Feathered Flag

The snow had been unexpected. This close to the bay, it usually didn’t snow so early in the season. Yet here they were, entrenched in day 3 of their game, and the snow had fallen steadily since two hours before sunrise. By his internal measure, the Leader estimated it was just before mid-day. But that was tough to say for certain without a peek at the sun. And that wasn’t likely to come any time today.

From the endless, enveloping grey, he heard a soft flap. Soon after, a form emerged – white head, dark body. One of ours. She flew low, beating her wings with stiff effort. Her eyes were squinted nearly closed against the endless assault of snowflakes against her eyes. She alighted on a branch and shook herself violently to clear her wings of accumulated snow.

“Thank you for taking the flight duty,” the Leader said. “Can’t be fun in this mess.”

“It really isn’t,” she admitted. “How’s the flag?”

“Safe and sound. If you’re here, I guess they raided another decoy?”

She nodded. “They must have left at dawn, came on us before any real light started coming through the clouds.”

“How many?”

“Two dozen, mostly the youths just into adult plumage. Split into three parties. They-”

“Attacked two at once,” the eagle Leader finished, recognizing the information. “Held the third in reserve to spot, then rotated. It’s the same tactic it’s been the whole game.”

“Yes, sir.” She flicked her wings again, stretching out the sore muscles from the long flight.

“Which post were you? And how long did they take?”

“Decoy 6. The one that’s mostly in the scrub trees by the Fishing Ones nest with the three smoke towers,” she explained.

“Hmm, that one is pretty far from their territory. Worth using our move?”

“I wouldn’t think, sir. They haven’t shown any overtures this way?” He shook his head. Little bits of snow flicked off in every direction. “Then what’s wrong with putting up another decoy?”

The Leader cocked his head to the left. South by southeast. Toward the water. Was that something in the mist? He cursed the weather and his own scouts for not identifying where the other team had its flag hidden. Above, on the spotting perch, all movement had ceased. No ruffled feathers, no complaining squawks at the cold. Both juveniles still faced landward, the direction of their responsibility, but they were clearly cheating looks backward.

“How quickly can you make the nearest decoy?” he asked the female messenger.

“Six minutes,” she said, nodding her head. “Landward and north.”

“Bring them all,” he instructed. “Go.”

She didn’t hesitate. She pushed up, beat her wings with a fury and gained the height she needed to angle toward the nearby decoy base. The leader began a count in his head, 12 minutes and going down, as he watched her escape flight. She vanished into the snow to the north.

And just as she folded into the grey in one direction, from the other came an eerily deadened shriek. And one by one, figures began to emerge. They flew in no discernible formation, just a mass of white-and-black birds, wings pumping against the cold and the weight of settled snow. The Osprey raiders had found the Eagles’ flag.

Unlike their earlier raids, this had little preamble. The eagle Leader was an adept tactician, and he’d played the game many times over the years. He chirped quick instructions. Two teams of defenders took flight, three birds in each squadron. That left 5 defenders, his 3 spotters plus himself for any sprightly Osprey that might make his way through the patrols.

“Sir, they’re going to know,” the adult spotter called down as he used his keen eyes to track the Osprey, attempting to identify the one in command.

“Yes.”

One Minute.

“I mean with this strong a response, they’ll know this is the flag location. We won’t be able to use our move.”

“Defense was always going to be our strength anyway,” the Leader answered.

In the air, a deft dance commenced. The Eagles were larger than the Osprey raiders, and they used their size to command the air space above their flag base. Two ospreys carved away from the flock and attempted a routine dive. With a grin and a screech, one Eagle deterred both birds with well-aimed talon swipes. Per game rules, neither raiders nor defenders could employ any attack that might injure an opponent beyond the capability of flight. Cuts and bruises were acceptable, often encouraged.

Three Minutes.

The Leader organized his two flight teams in his head, tagging one as FT1 and the other as FT2. He hopped away from the spotter’s post, opening up sight lines in every direction. The osprey flock had fanned out, sending a third of their number to the landward side. FT2 responded, angling their patrol arcs to cover the landward side.

“That’s a feint,” the Leader said out loud. He pointed his beak at two of his reserved defenders. “Seaward, north side. They’ll come from two heights. Cover the low.” Up they went, and just in time.

At some unheard or unseen command, a dozen osprey split from the larger body of the flock that flew just over the nearby water. With purposeful randomness, they swooped down out of the grey toward the base. Three older birds had good sense of space, and it took both reserve defenders a few maneuvers to chase them off. That left FT1 to deflect nine birds. But these osprey were younger, more reckless and, critically, overly reliant on group attack. They flew too close together, and the three eagle defenders made short work of them. Moments after the first wave of the siege began, it was over. The osprey flock flapped higher, reforming for the next wave.

Six minutes. She’s there.

The adult spotter chirped in frustration. Wisely, the main body of the osprey flock kept its holding pattern high and behind the wind. The snow fell and blew into the spotter’s eyes ceaselessly, and he was unable to identify any sign of a commander. The juveniles beside him squawked a warning, and the second assault began.

For a long six minutes, the Leader counted in his head and screeched directions to his troops. To a man, they were adept, including the two juvenile spotters who both competed in their first ever game. For their part, the ospreys mounted a worthwhile campaign, attempting to use their numbers to create mismatches and openings in the eagle defense. Once, the eagle Leader even had to take to the sky himself to beat back a well-timed dive from one of the older osprey raiders. Eagle and osprey grinned at each other as the osprey retreated, a mutual respect between two seasoned campaigners in the game’s long tradition.

Ten minutes. Where are they?

The eagle Leader could see his defenders tiring. He knew they needed a change, but with the sheer size of the osprey raiding party, any attempt to send up the defenders to relieve the flight teams would invite an all-out attack that could very well end with their flag clutched in some triumphant osprey’s beak. If he was going to lead his team to a loss, it would be with their beaks held high and their talons stuck full of osprey feathers.

Briskly, he issued commands to the adult spotter. Then he nodded to the defenders. He would leave one, as a last resort to grab the flag and attempt an escape flight if it came to that. Just as he spread his wings to lift off, intent on joining what might be the game’s final showdown, a loud distress call pierced the air. It was an eagle, coming from the seaward direction.

He appeared soon after, wings beating furiously, head ducking again and again in a vain attempt to keep his vision clear of snow. And he carried in his claws a scraggly branch. A sign of neutrality. The osprey flock broke their lines, giving him room to fly through toward the eagle base. And from the flock dropped a single bird, a female of unremarkable size but with a brilliant underside almost wholly white. Their raid leader. She alighted by the eagle Leader at the same time as the neutral messenger.

“Fishing Ones,” the exhausted eagle messenger said between gasps for breath. “At the channel.”

“The old Hawk’s place?” the Leader asked.

“Yes, sir.”

The eagle Leader looked at the osprey. She shook her head, disbelieving.

“What are the odds?” she asked rhetorically.

The bay was enormous, and it could feed a great many birds. For as long as the memory of eagles stretched back in time, there had been three groups of Great Birds that lived off the fish and small game of the bay. Of the three, the eagles and ospreys got along well enough, having long been amiable birds that were willing to evenly divide the good hunting grounds. The third type, the Marsh Hawks, were a more surly lot. They rarely broke from their small family groups, and they openly disdained the games of Capture the Flag the other Great Birds used to fairly divvy up new hunting grounds when they became available.

For years, a small family of Marsh Hawks had held a small hunting ground at a spot where two small streams spilled into the bay. Just beyond the spot where the streams spilled into the bay, a small, slender island ran parallel to shore and formed a narrow but surprisingly deep channel. It wasn’t particularly sizable, but its depth encouraged passage for smaller schools of the shad and bass that provided the bulk of the food for all the bay’s Great Birds. Sadly, the Marsh Hawk family had shrunk in recent years until it was just two remaining brothers. They’d left their hunting ground recently, knowing they must find females elsewhere to continue their line.

As always, the eagles & ospreys had agreed to play a game to decide which group would gain rights to the abandoned channel. Parameters had been set, players gathered, and flags hidden. When this particular osprey raid on the eagle’s base had begun, it was only five days since it had been determined the hawk brothers were gone for good.

“Fishing Ones are in the channel?” the eagle Leader asked again, needing to know he’d correctly heard.

“The channel we’re playing for?” the osprey added.

“Yes,” the messenger replied. “Arrived maybe an hour ago. Two sets in their tree-cuts.”

This was bad news. The eagle Leader saw the look of worry on the osprey leader’s face and realized he must share the expression. He took a moment to compose himself before speaking again.

“This cannot be coincidence.”

“It’s their third expansion in as many seasons,” the osprey noted. “They want more. Always more.”

“We’ve played our game for generations, and they intend to just… No,” the eagle Leader said firmly. “We cannot let the Fishing Ones simply take what is not theirs.”

The osprey nodded. “I’ve got almost 30 pairs of wings up there already hocked up on adrenaline and competition.”

“And they’d be willing to turn that energy to other targets?”

“Osprey isn’t our only name,” she said with a sly smile. “We’re also called Fish Hawks. And we were minutes from winning this year’s game.”

“Ha!” the eagle Leader scoffed good-naturedly.

“Whether the channel is yours or ours, it’s very much not the Fishing Ones’.” She bobbed her head in frustration. “We don’t invade their hunting grounds.”

As if to cement their decision, a battle cry sounded from somewhere out of sight. The reinforcements from the nearby decoy base. The eagle Leader instructed the two adolescent spotters to run errands. One flew toward the reinforcements to deliver the bad news and instruct them to hold; the other brought an update to the osprey flock.

“How should we approach?” the osprey wondered.

“How many are there?” the eagle Leader asked the messenger.

“Two cut-trees; three in one, four in the other.”

The Leader nodded and had to bite back a prematurely triumphant grin. “We’ve got sixty birds with talons and something to fight for. I think an all-out assault, low and high, will run them off.”

And in moments, it was settled. The osprey took flight, angled back to her flock, and mustered her troops. Similar instructions made the rounds with the eagles. And for the first time in living memory, the flocks veered in collective synchronization, wings spread, white heads and white bellies flying together on their way to war.

In the channel, the Fishing Ones did not speak. In their cut-trees, they bobbed on top of the water, floating inevitably down-current. They dragged behind them huge nets, sunk under water. With them, they pulled up fish by the dozens. All went into their cut-trees and were hauled back to their strange nests on the ground and their towers that spit smoke at all hours. Where they fish, they leave nothing behind.

The attack came from nowhere. Where before it was a great hindrance, the snow now aided the Great Birds. They came from above in a controlled fall, like so many taloned, vengeful snowflakes. The Fishing Ones shouted in fear and confusion, and they covered their eyes. They knew how the Great Birds defended territory, and they feared the consequences of the incessant raking of sharp, avian claws in a perpetual storm. The Great Birds attacked in three big waves, eagle and osprey swooped wing-to-wing upon their larger, unprepared prey.

In the fray, and despite great cuts opened on their arms and wrists, the Fishing Ones managed to grab the long, flat branches attached to the sides of their cut-trees. Some worked the branches while others did their best to fight off the Great Birds as feathers and blood mixed with shrieks and yells. The cut-trees began to move faster downstream, picking up speed as the Fishing Ones propelled them across the calm surface of the bay.

Once out of the channel, the Fishing Ones turned a wide arc and made for the deeper water away from shore. A pair of eagles and a pair of osprey were assigned to follow and bring back news once they reached their own hunting grounds.

In a flurry of wings and squawks of victory, the eagles and osprey landed on the small island. They covered the narrow strip of land in a mass of flapping wings. Chatter rose to a cacophony as they traded accolades and taunts and cheered themselves for the first shared victory in the game’s history.

On a scraggly tree, the eagle Leader alighted next to the osprey raider. She nodded her appreciation to him, and he replied in kind. But neither was as overjoyed as their troops. They were old birds, they had lived on the bay with the Fishing Ones for years, and they knew no victory against them was ever permanent.

“They won’t forget today. It is not in their nature to cower and hide,” the osprey said, and the eagle recognized a hidden undertone. Not fear, never fear. She was too proud. The Great Birds were too proud, eagle and osprey alike. But something else. Apprehension, perhaps. Concern for what would come with the next battle.

“Yes,” he replied after a time. “That is true. And we are many, but so are they. More will come for our flag, we will beat them back. Then more will come, and we will beat them back again.”

The osprey chirruped sadly. “I know this story, I think. Because it does not end. It only ever continues. They will always come, always with more.”

“They will,” the eagle said. He shook his head and noticed that, finally, the snow had begun to stop. And he wondered out loud, not knowing if there was an answer but feeling it his duty to ask. “How long can we defend our flag against a raid that never ends?”