A Q&A With Adelphi’s Most Mysterious Resident: The Hawk Who Refused to Fly

By Kyle Arjoonsingh  

For one red-tailed hawk at Adelphi, the sky was always an option — he just chose not to take it.  

Last month, Public Safety officers noticed the bird perched near Levermore Hall, seemingly unbothered by the world around him but noticeably unable — or unwilling — to fly. Concerned, they contacted wildlife rehabilitator Bobby Horvath, who took the hawk in for care. A week later, when it came time to release him, the hawk made his decision clear: he wasn’t going anywhere.  

Adelphi’s resident hawk proves that sometimes sitting still is the ultimate power move. Photo by Thea Crouch

Since then, his legend has only grown. Though still under the care of Wildlife in Need of Rescue and Rehabilitation, he has become a fixture of campus conversations, a symbol of quiet defiance and contemplation. Some students claim to have spotted him watching over the university from unseen vantage points, others insist he’s merely waiting for the right moment to take flight.  

Despite the speculation, one thing remains true — no one knows his story better than he does. It’s the ultimate hawkward situation: when flight is an option, but staying grounded feels like the better choice. The Defiler conducted an exclusive interview.

What really happened — why didn’t you take flight that day?

Look, everyone just assumed I’d take off the second I got the chance, but no one ever asked me how I felt about it. Have you seen the world lately? Hawks don’t get health insurance. Out there, it’s nothing but high winds, bad weather and pigeons with no sense of personal space. Here, I had people taking care of me, a prime campus location, and what I can only assume is a growing fan base. Why would I rush to leave?

Some people say you were scared. Any truth to that?

Scared? That’s watching someone pull on a “push” door while the whole UC dining hall stares in silence. I could never.

Students have started giving you different names—Professor Talon, Lord of the Skies. Do you have a preference?

Names come with expectations. If I let them name me, I let them define me. And I’ve never been one for labels. If people want to call me something, that’s their business. I just am.

Would you consider yourself more of a philosopher or an accidental campus icon?

I mean, I’m just a guy who knows when to stay put. But if you all want to read some deeper meaning into it, go ahead. I’m happy to be your feathery little enigma.

What have you observed about Adelphi students during your time here?

You all walk incredibly fast like there’s a race to get to class or maybe a secret deadline no one told me about. And yet, somehow, you’re always late. It’s like you’ve mastered the art of speed walking, but never the art of arriving on time. Also, the amount of food I see just… falling out of people’s hands? It’s impressive in a tragic way. I’ve seen half-eaten sandwiches, granola bars and potato wedges scattered across campus like some kind of breadcrumb trail. It’s like a snack crime scene every time I look around. Maybe try eating with one hand and holding your coffee with the other? Just a thought.

Do you think you’ll ever leave?

Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I already have, and you’re just talking to an illusion. The thing about flight is that it’s not just about wings — it’s about knowing when to take off and when to stay grounded.

With that, the hawk blinked, turned his head slightly, and said nothing more. The interview was over.

For now, the hawk remains perched, quietly judging students who are probably running late for class while trying to juggle a coffee and their life choices. His stillness is a reminder that sometimes, you don’t need to fly to be important — sometimes, you just need to know when to stay put and watch the chaos unfold. And who knows? Maybe he’s just waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in, make a grand exit and leave everyone thinking, “Wow, that bird really had it all figured out.” Until then, he’ll continue watching over Adelphi, the king of his perch, proving that sometimes the best move is not moving at all.