The peregrine falcon — the fastest bird on the planet in its high‑speed stoop — has always felt like a mirror for my own chase for speed. I nearly reached the summit in the 800 m, once ranking number two in my age group, so I know firsthand that raw talent and the right physical gifts matter. Still, the peregrine simply does what it was built to do without swagger or self‑congratulation; it doesn’t know it’s the fastest, it only performs. That’s the quiet lesson I take to heart: being the best in the world is less important than striving to be the best version of yourself by doing what comes naturally, preparing diligently, and letting skill and instinct meet the moment.
These days I channel that speed into birding, photography, and a rather pleasingly irresponsible “burning tempo” on Rhythm Changes and the Minute Waltz after I have had a few cups of coffee.
Another notable falcon is The American kestrel is basically the city’s jewelry designer: tiny, colorful, and always ready for a portrait. It may be the smallest falcon in North America, but it more than compensates with agile, determined hunting: it can hover—or kite—over fields, scan for movement, then drop with fierce precision on mice, insects, small mammals and birds. Its compact size and quickness let it exploit habitats larger raptors can’t, and its bold, determined strikes prove that power isn’t only about size but about timing, technique, and relentless focus.
Being a Falcon at Seattle Pacific University taught me a thing or two about timing and panache. I helped set the school record in Track and Field in the 1500m , earned All‑American honors, played on our national‑championship soccer squad, and was Athlete of the Year in 1993. Turns out those split-second instincts translate well to bird photography: you either catch the shot or you get a dramatic silhouette and a great story.
Now I chase speed in more musical ways — racing through Chopin, flirting with the Minute Waltz, and hitting full “burning tempo” on the piano when the mood strikes. I also have to be fast with my camera to capture these fast moving birds.
The merlin is a celebrated little falcon — agile, fierce, and famously quick — so it’s no surprise that the popular bird‑identification app Merlin is named after it. Yesterday was the first time I ever photographed one, and watching it in the air felt almost magical: a compact blur of intent, darting and weaving with a hunter’s precision. Maybe it’s called a Merlin because its flight looks like sleight of hand, an aerial wizard conjuring opportunity out of motion; in reality its “powers” are honed speed, stealth, and timing, all of which it uses to outmaneuver and surprise prey.
Patience in Wildlife Photography
I learned patience the hard, slow way from long hours spent practicing classical music. Repetition taught me to be comfortable with silence, to focus on tiny shifts in timing and touch, and to wait for the exact moment when everything lines up; you don’t rush a phrase any more than you force a perfect cadence. That same discipline is essential in wildlife photography: you sit still, read the light, study behavior, and sometimes wait for hours for the right action — much like a peregrine falcon that can sit perched for hours, eyes locked and body coiled, waiting for the precise instant to strike. The sight of that still, patient bird is as instructive as any metronome: it teaches restraint, timing, and the quiet confidence to let preparation meet opportunity. Both pursuits reward endurance and attention to subtle cues, trading instant gratification for a fleeting, perfect moment.