From my second-floor study a few minutes ago I saw a flash of the brown and cream barred pattern of a Red-tailed hawk flying across the yard. It disappeared in an evergreen tree not far from the chicken pen. Although there had been no warning squawks from the chickens, everybody had taken cover except for Punkster, who stood frozen beside the egg-laying hutch. I watched for a while. Punkster didn't move, could've been cement. No sign of the hawk.
I wasn't too worried because there's netting over the top of the pen. I went outside, followed by Darwin. Punkster and everybody else didn't move until I reached the bottom of the stone steps leading to that part of the yard. The spell broke, all the chickens emerged from inside the mini-barn and under the hutch. A squirrel started chattering from a tree to the right and a Steller's Jay screeched from a tree to the left. The hawk was gone