Thirty years ago, Peregrine falcons were among the most endangered of species. DDT and other pesticides did near-irreparable damage to their population. Luckily, the Cornell breeding project, conservation-minded falconers, and the the government joined forces in a “perfect storm” of protective measures to save the Peregrine.
It was also discovered that this falcon adapted beautifully to the urban landscape. They nest in the tall buildings all over the city and are fairly surrounded by an endless supply of pigeons to feast upon.
I watched this first hand one day. I was walking across Daley Plaza when I saw an explosion of feathers about fifty feet over my head. It looked like a pillow had exploded. The luckless pigeon dropped to the plaza and the Peregrine had spread her wings over her kill and proceeded to chow down on some squab. Pedestrians gave her a wide berth; some stopped to watch quietly, grateful they’d not been born a pigeon. I noticed all of the other pigeons got the fuck out of the plaza in a big hurry and nobody got within 20 feet of her while she ate.
What had happened was the falcon spotted her dinner and dove from about seven or eight hundred feet at a speed of 165 miles per hour and hit this poor bastard with her breast bone. The rock dove never knew what hit him. It would be like the gods dropping a boxcar on you.
I’m glad there are peregrines in Chicago. They are damn-near a perfect symbol for our city, in their beauty and cruelty. Chicago is that kind of city; you can hang on the cross, or you can pound in the nails.