Falcons, Fugues, and Fast Fingers

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 — 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.

A Correction: The One That Turned Out Not to Be a Falcon

This section used to be about a merlin. It is not a merlin, and I would rather correct that here than leave it standing.

I photographed this bird at Oaks Bottom, was thrilled with it, and filed it as my first merlin. It is a juvenile Cooper’s hawk — not a falcon at all, and not even in the same family. Here is what gives it away, because the tells are genuinely useful once you know them.

The eye. This is the one that settles it on its own. Every falcon — merlin, kestrel, peregrine — has a dark eye, so dark it reads as black. This bird has a pale yellow eye with an obvious dark pupil, which is the mark of a young accipiter. Look back at the kestrel portrait above and you can see the difference immediately.

No mustache. Falcons wear a dark malar stripe below the eye — bold on a peregrine, doubled on a kestrel, faint but present on a merlin. This face is clean.

The proportions. A falcon has long pointed wings that reach far down the tail. On this bird the wingtips stop about a third of the way along a very long, boldly banded tail. That is the short-wing, long-rudder build of a woodland hawk that ambushes and chases, not a falcon built to run something down in open air.

The bill. Falcons have a notch on the cutting edge of the upper bill — the tomial tooth — used to sever the spine of prey. This bill is a smooth, simple hook.

Which means I still have not photographed a merlin. Twelve years at Oaks Bottom and that one is still on the list.

I am leaving the mistake up rather than quietly deleting it, because misidentifying a bird is not a failure of attention — it is the ordinary condition of learning one. The hawk-versus-falcon split is the exact thing worth taking away here, and I have written it up properly in The Hawks of Portland, where this bird’s species gets the treatment it deserves. Falcons, as it happens, are not close relatives of hawks at all; they are nearer to parrots and songbirds. Two very different birds that arrived at a similar shape by solving a similar problem.

And the app really is named after the falcon, which is how I got there in the first place. Merlins are celebrated little birds — agile, fierce, famously quick, hunting small birds down in flat-out level pursuit rather than the peregrine’s dive. When I finally get one, you will hear about it.

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.

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