February 1, 2011.  A female Red-shouldered Hawk sat in a dead cedar.  Her crop was full of the flesh of a fresh kill.  Was it a rodent, a snake, a sluggish frog?  A pale bird, although not as light as the “shoulders” in south Florida, she basked in the morning sun.  It was the first warm day in a week.   She stretched, she scratched, she checked the sky.  She called and her mate, a smaller hawk as pale as she, fly into a nearby tree.   LIfe is good in a Florida marsh.