Life Instructions

The nest in the photograph is atop a young oak tree across the street, spread across branches that aren’t much more than twigs. What I am unable to show by camera, though, is how amazingly minuscule the nest is. I could hold two of them in the palm of one hand.

It’s not a new nest, and when I recall how many terrific winds have gusted through the neighborhood this year alone, the engineering of the bird home is all the more remarkable. Whose is it? Will they be returning to it, as so many birds do?

I’ll start monitoring it. As the oak begins to bud and leaf, I expect that’s when the home will be reinhabited. I’ll keep you posted.

Until then, I aim to follow these wise words from poet Mary Oliver, and I encourage you to do the same:

“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
—from “Sometimes,” in Red Bird by Mary Oliver

It’s Monday Again

Face your week with the attitude of this fierce fledgling: with courage and confidence.

A Conclave of Cardinals

Birdsong near our building has grown more complex of late—meaning that birds are beginning to return to the area. We had a couple of prolific songsters the other day who I was never able to spot. I wish I’d had the good sense to record them so I could share their music with you.

My next-door neighbor’s backyard bush is Union Station to the avian population here and served me quite a treat this week: Eight Cardinals, a mix of young males and females, have been perching quietly there. EIGHT!

“I hope you love birds, too. It is economical. It saves going to Heaven.”
—Emily Dickinson

[Photo by Ken Thomas.]

Sharing the Stage with Groundhog Day…

Today is World Wetlands Day, a single day reserved to rouse awareness for the importance of wetlands—not just for the plants and creatures who reside in them, but also for the critters just passing through (like these Whooping Cranes migrating through Kentucky and searching for a resting spot).

You can spread the word about wetlands by sending a favorite someone an e-card.

“[T]he meeting of land and water…keeps alive the sense of continuing creation and the relentless drive of life. Each time I enter it, I gain some new awareness of its beauty and its deeper meanings, sensing that intricate fabric of life by which one creature is linked with another, and each with its surroundings.”
—Rachel Carson

[Photo of Purple Gallinule in the Wakodahatchee Wetlands by Jake Paredes; photo of migrating Whooping Cranes from U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.]

My Bluebird of UNHappiness

I wrote to the Nevada Mining Association this week. I’d never even heard of the Nevada Mining Association until I read my new issue of Audubon magazine.

On my ever-growing list of things I never knew (I’ve a friend who sends me news stories nearly every day to which I reply, too frequently and embarrassingly, “I had no idea!”), I can now add “mining markers”—hollow PVC pipes used to indicate a mining claim and operation on public lands in the West.

Sounds innocuous, right? Perhaps an aesthetic blight to some, but otherwise not a problem.

But this is not the case. Birds and lizards are drawn to these markers as potential nesting and roosting sites—or simply places to rest and conserve energy/heat for a bit. Trouble is that once they go in, they can’t get back out. The markers become the animals’ final resting place: death by dehydration or starvation.

Environmentalists have been trying to fix this since 1983. Finally, several years ago, miners were given two years to change the materials they used for these markers; now, after 30 years, it’s legal for anyone to remove the markers. Nevada state wildlife officials jumped into action with conservation groups and started pulling the markers in November 2012, when the new legislation permitted them to do so. Audubon magazine was celebratory over the change and reported that 8,000+ markers have already been pulled. Only 2,992,000+ to go.

“Once, with binoculars, I watched a male American kestrel perched on a post, staring down inside over and over. I avoided him for a while and came back to the post about a half hour later. The male was gone and his recently deceased mate was in the bottom of the post. Given how long it takes for a bird to die of dehydration, I imagine this male had kept vigil for some days, if not weeks.”
—Pete Bradley, Bristlecone Audubon Society conservation chairman

Not every pulled pipe held a dead bird, but some revealed as many as 15—my adopted Mountain Bluebird’s kin among them (this was part of the outcry—the Mountain Bluebird is Nevada’s state bird). With 2,992,000+ more markers to remove, that’s a lot of birds.

Hence my letter to the Nevada Mining Association, whose members include 3M and Halliburton. Obviously, the new legislation isn’t requiring the mining companies to remove their own markers. So I wondered which companies were assuming social responsibility and sending their own crews out to remove markers. Seems like a great PR opportunity, doesn’t it?

I haven’t heard squat from the NMA, but I’ll let you know if I do.

[Photo of marker by Christy Klinger; photo of Kestrel by James Ownby.]

Birdbaths as Adoption Tools

Oklahoman Larry Flick was in his garden when he heard a splash. He turned to investigate and photographed this in his birdbath:

What a find! I can’t entice so much as a sparrow into my artful birdbath, much less a spotted pooch.

Turns out the dog was homeless as well as overheated. Until, of course, he paired up with a birdbath—a cute-as-a-button PR strategy that quickly got him adopted by Mr. Flick.

Saying Goodbye, Saying Hello

It’s been puzzling to me that 2012 is already over. I’m not sure I was ready to say goodbye to it. Not that it was a particularly spectacular year for me (though I did find that four-leaf clover). On the contrary, pretty much NOTHING happened—no personal tragedy or loss, no personal monumental achievements or failures. It was a year of the Small and the Quiet. I can’t recall another year like it.

Sure, the world around me swirled with unrest and catastrophe, and it affected me emotionally. But for the first time in this millennium, I have no personal high or low points to report, no milestones, no markers that will forever chisel 2012 into memory.

Instead, I have moments with insects, trees, horses, and family to cherish. And then came this:

This is a Mountain Bluebird, “adopted” through the National Audubon Society for us as a Christmas gift. (You, too, may adopt one and become a member of Audubon.) We haven’t named him yet, but I like to think of him as our Little Bluebird of Happiness. And with the Bluebird of Happiness at my side, how can 2013 NOT be a splendid year?

May your 2013 be all you wish it to be. And if not that, may it at least be filled with the Small and the Quiet.

[Goodbye pic from V3; bird photo by David Speiser.]

Birds of a Feather?

On a walk this week, the sky blackened with crows. I stopped to watch as they circled a tree—some lighting on it, others frolicking together in the air near it. Like the starlings earlier this fall, they seemed to be preparing for an event.

This brought to mind the scarecrow exhibit I saw last month at the local arboretum. Here’s one of my favorites—the “Free Range, Heritage Breed Urban Chicken Made Entirely of Recycled, Repurposed and Locally Sourced Organic Materials” (as the signage read):

This chicken probably wouldn’t scare any corvids, but it might give them something to think about.

The Month of Thanks Giving

Americans celebrate Thanksgiving this month, though giving thanks can happen any month, any day. Today I’m especially grateful I’m not a Wood Duck. Let me explain.

If you watched Nature’s “An Original DUCKumentary” last night on PBS*, you already know what I mean. It’s not the low survival rate of “Woodies” that I’m grateful not to contend with. (Nearly every animal larger than the tiny ducklings—eagles, herons, foxes, turtles, even fish—find them to be tasty treats.) Would I were a Wood Duck, I wouldn’t get past my second day of life—the day each diminutive, flightless Woodie follows its mother’s voice to the water.

First step? Climb out of the nest, which is in a tree cavity, and jump to the ground from a height of up to 89 feet. This is what inspires my gratitude, for I would be the first Woodie left behind.

I don’t have the kind of courage it takes to jump 89 feet into the unknown. Or maybe it’s faith I lack. Whatever. I simply don’t have what it takes to be a Wood Duck.

Makes me happy to be human.

* If you missed “An Original DUCKumentary,” try watching it online. The ducks are jaw-droppingly gorgeous, the footage often borders on extraordinary, and Paul Giamatti is a terrific narrator.

[Top photo by Nature’s Poetry; bottom photo from The Inn at Bowman’s Hill.]

Swayed by Hitchcock

Coming home from the grocery store yesterday, we heard a throng of chirping unlike anything we’d heard before. We looked up to see a nearby tree filling with birds, all sounding the same message.

Turned out they were starlings flying in from three different directions in small flocks—all jockeying for a place on the oak’s topmost branches, though there was plenty of room in the lower two-thirds of the tree. We stood mesmerized for some time. Whenever we thought the birds were finished congregating, a new batch would land.

My husband ran home to get his camera. While he was gone, even more birds joined the group.

Though we’d seen our share of undulating flocks in the skies, we’d never witnessed the period beforehand when the birds assembled. We wondered how many were there, how many more would arrive, how long they’d stay in the tree before taking off, where they were headed, and if they’d head there in one magnificent murmuration.

After a bit, the chirping gave way to typical starling calls, which meant what? They were relaxing? The assemblage was complete?

As a neighborhood couple came up behind us, we stepped aside to give them right-of-way on the sidewalk. They noticed what captivated us and made some reference to Hitchcock’s avian film. That was my cue, I realized much too late, to SPEAK UP—to clue them in to the uniqueness of the moment and prevent them from doing what they did next.

As the couple neared the tree, the man raised his hands above his head and forcefully clapped, tidily dispersing the birds as he’d intended to do.

I saw red. Several un-neighborly actions came to mind. What compelled the guy to bully the birds? Was he a six-year-old?

More important, how did his behavior impact the starlings? Was their plan ruined? Would late arrivals to the tree know how to find the rest of their clan? Would this new development interrupt the starlings’ eat/sleep cycles?

Now, I didn’t go so far as to have expected the couple to join us in our amazement. I realize we can’t all focus on nature all the time. Someone has to noodle on closing the tech divide and providing clean-water access to the world. Yet surely the rest of us can take time out periodically from our other concerns to contemplate the beauty and mystery that the Universe bestows upon us. Or, at least, not spoil someone else’s contemplation.

If we don’t see—really see—the environment we live in, how can we responsibly care for it? May the Universe set something of beauty in your path this weekend…

Wild Thing

As I rushed off to Pilates class the other day, a glance toward our basement window stopped me in my tracks.

There, on the INSIDE of the glass, sat a sparrow looking out.

My first thought was a Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson article, “Do Animals Get Depressed?” He contends that only captive and domesticated animals experience depression—not wild animals. Well, if he saw this tiny bird, I’m sure he’d change his mind. I see a LOT of sparrows around here yet have never seen any look like this one—forlorn, hopeless, still.

My second thought was to help the poor little guy.

I ran back into the apartment to tell my husband, who promptly (and without my feeble assistance) ushered the bird’s return to the outdoors.

Crisis averted and wild life restored. It doesn’t get better than that.

[Artist unknown.]

A Mood Pick-Me-Up

While trying to figure out a way to access a Webinar I registered for on humane education (the company doesn’t support Apple products, and Apple doesn’t support the workarounds), I came across this photo. Jack Moskovita waited more than four hours to get this shot of a Golden Rufous’s brief stay in Washington. My frustration with technology quickly dissipated.

Bird Shenanigans

 This is just what I often see/hear at our bird feeders:

[I don’t know who originated this captioned pic. Do you?]

Acorn Follies

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 25

 

Acorn season has begun here in the Bluegrass. Soon enough, the nuts will have fallen in such abundance to the streets and sidewalks that crushing them will be unavoidable.* Pavement will turn school-bus yellow from their innards.

Park anywhere near an oak tree and you risk damaging your vehicle. Acorns fall so frequently at such a speed that you’d swear someone is high in the oaks taking aim. Take a walk at night in my neighborhood and you risk breaking an ankle on the little buggers.

Just last week on a bicycle ride to the library—as I was gliding downhill and coming around to thinking that the long, hot trek wasn’t so bad—THWACK! Something hit the front of my prescription sunglasses, violently, and bounced away. Worried, I stopped to check the damage. I imagined having to return to Chicago for repairs or replacements, but I got off lucky. No cracks, yet the single acorn had scratched my lenses.

A serious aversion to acorns started to germinate in me at that moment. Thugs! That’s how I was beginning to see the little devils.

After taking a deep breath, though, I countered this irritation by considering the natural beauty of acorns (their color variations, their contrast in texture) and their inspiration for artists. I thought about the potential of acorns to grow into majestic oaks and how squirrels, birds, and some human populations rely on them as a food source. The little devils weren’t so bad after all. With so much to offer, how can I not appreciate and embrace such a gift from Nature?

* Assuming this year’s crop will replicate last year’s, though with the extreme weather conditions of 2012, this may not be the case.
 
[Squirrel photo by Marko Kivelä; felted acorns from lil fish studios. Check out acorn recipes on hunter angler gardener cook.]

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

BOOKreMARKS: Bye, Bye Birdie

I’ve reached the final chapter of Sy Montgomery’s Birdology and I hesitate to begin it because I don’t want the book to end. Heck, I didn’t want the hummingbird chapter to end.

I’ve learned so much about birds (Montgomery writes: “A raptor’s vision is the sharpest of all living creatures.” They can spot prey across a three-square-mile area from 1,000 feet in the air.) and have delighted in the stories (Scientists studying homing pigeons at Cornell University had one bird who always made it back to Ithaca after being released elsewhere, but never returned to the coop as did the other birds in the study. Instead, locals who spotted the wayward banded bird in their yards would report it to Cornell, then send the bird back to the scientists—in a taxi! I’m guessing the first time the pigeon failed to return to the coop was an honest mistake, but thereafter he made it a point to meet some new neighbors and get chauffeured through town.)

If you’re not already schooled in bird behavior, please read Birdology. It will enrich your connection to the great outdoors.

[Falcon photo from Audubon Magazine; Frill Back Pigeon photo from the National Pigeon Association.]

Bird Briefs, Part 2

They’re fluttering outside my windows and inside my books: birds. Thought I’d say a few words about them.

Extreme Rescue
Sy Montgomery’s latest book, Birdology, is a delightful collection of stories, histories, lore, and facts about seven avian species (or, if some scientists get their way, seven dinosaur species). She devotes one chapter to hummingbirds, profiling the day-to-day efforts of a “hummer” rehabber who specializes in fostering orphaned baby hummers—so tiny they’re best observed with the aid of a magnifying glass.

One member of the 340+ hummingbird species journeys from Mexico to Alaska each year—the longest migration, in terms of body length, of any bird. The first portion of the course includes a trek across the Gulf of Mexico—a 21-hour, nonstop flight. It’s a miraculous show of stamina and endurance, and not every hummer is up to it. Montgomery mentions one unfortunate bird who collapsed on an oil rig. The (unnamed) oil company ordered a helicopter to transport the feathered patient to a wildlife rehabber in the States, where the little guy spent months recuperating in a greenhouse. He caught up with his pals on their return migration to Mexico. I’m not sure which is more amazing: the hummers’ migration or the oil company’s good deed.


Say It Isn’t So
If you’ve read Erik Larson’s The Devil in the White City, you know how packed it is with details about 1890s Chicago—the dust, the odors, the politics. Of all the remarkable and sometimes shocking facts Larson presents, one in particular stood out to me. Frederick Law Olmsted, as part of the magical landscape he conjured for the Columbian Exposition, populated the lagoons with birds. Larson writes: “Olmsted had ordered more than eight hundred ducks and geese, seven thousand pigeons, and for the sake of accent a number of exotic birds, including four snowy egrets, four storks, two brown pelicans, and two flamingoes.”

SEVEN THOUSAND PIGEONS? Really? Weren’t there enough pigeons in Chicago already? Every species on Olmsted’s list is a water bird except the pigeon. Could it be that a critical word—say, Guillemot—was omitted from the copy? Perhaps Olmsted imported 7,000 Guillemot Pigeons to the fair, which would make sense. Readers, can you shed any light on this matter?


Platonic Pairings
I’ve written before about LuckyBird and his sparrow pal. What I’ve not yet relayed is that we have been watching two other similar pairs at our feeders. The cardinals are young adults and, in both cases, the sparrows seem more committed to the relationships than their crimson counterparts. Is it misguided, unrequited love? Are they just friends? Will they ever mate with their own kind? Again, dear readers, if you know anything about cross-species relationships, please enlighten me.

“Birds teach us reverence—a virtue that, writes classicist and philosopher Paul Woodruff, ‘begins in a deep understanding of human limitations.’ ”
—from Birdology, by Sy Montgomery

[Art by Ernst Haeckel (top) and Charley Harper (bottom).]

Applying Musical Restraint

This morning’s air is cool and it seems every bird has answered the weather’s invitation to open in song. No cars, no joggers. Nothing stirs in this still dawn but the surround sound of feathered notes.

Later today I will practice my own music-making—a bit of Bach and Gounod on the piano. My keyboard is electric, so I take care to practice silently with the aid of some headphones. This is partially because I don’t want neighbors to hear me, but mostly it’s for the birds’ sake.

Oh, I confess: A few times when birds have perched at our feeders, I’ve played the piano out loud and enjoyed hearing birds respond to it. Major keys inspire them more than minor ones; the same for simple melodies over complex arrangements.

But I worry: What has my music communicated to the birds? Who do they think I am? I don’t wish to confuse them or frighten them or get their hopes up about a potential mate. And I absolutely don’t want to repeat the unfortunate Robin incident of my youth.

I can’t recall which sonata I was learning at the time, but it attracted a crazed fan. I played the family’s console piano then, so headphones weren’t an option.

One Spring day as I practiced this particular sonata, a THUD startled me. I quit playing and cautiously approached the window to investigate the noise. A Robin sat dazed in the pussywillow bush just beneath the window. Once I was certain he’d recovered, I returned to the piano and resumed practice.

THUD! This time, I ran to the window. There was the Robin again, only this time he lay sprawled and limp across the bush—dead for all I knew. “MOM!!” I needed assistance with this turn of events.

My parents came to my aid, but by the time my father had stepped outside and arrived at the pussywillow bush, the bird had resurrected himself and flown out to the ash tree in our yard. My mother convinced me all was fine and left me to my sonata.

This time as I played, my father watched. Turns out, the Robin would listen from the ash tree then fly pell-mell toward the source of the music. His window nemesis, of course, broke his path on each attempt. Well, on the first two attempts anyway. This third time the Robin simply perched on the bush and continued listening.

As you probably guessed, once I understood that this sonata, or my rendition of it, was causing the potentially fatal behavior of the bird, I stopped practicing it. I only hoped my music teacher would understand.

Mercifully, we’ve had no window collisions here since erecting our bird feeders, and I don’t expect any. But I still worry about giving birds the wrong impression with my music. I would hate to mislead them in any way. So as much as I’d like to join the avian chorus that sings here, I try to be the better human and refrain from participation. Sigh.

Bird Briefs

Plumage-Watch Duty Ends
It pleases me to inform you that LuckyBird now sports a full and glorious tail of red and black. The tailless Cardinal has frequented our feeder ever since I first reported him to you—sometimes alone, other times accompanied by his Sparrow pal. He always peers through the window at us, as if to say, “Hey! Are you in there?” or “Hi guys! Watcha doin’ today?” or “Are you ever going to invite me in?” He acts as if he’s part of our inner circle.


Horsepower and the Urban Barnyard
Walked down our street the other day and saw the Chickens again. They were exploring their new next-door neighbor’s driveway. I love that I can see a Maserati parked there one evening and the next watch some curious fowl strut around the same area. (Yes, my quaint, manicured neighborhood of tiny, storybook homes occasionally offers a little eye candy to car enthusiasts: Ferraris, Aston Martins, Porsches, vintage Mercedes and Jaguars… Interesting demographics here. You can’t pigeonhole these folks.)

See Me! Feed Me! Love Me!
It’s baby-bird season now and I have delighted in watching their feeding rituals. The Sparrow mothers have been feeding their offspring from our feeders—sometimes in the yard, sometimes on our window ledge. The youngsters flutter their wings at a hummingbird pace while crying at a frantic pitch. They hold their mouths open, reaching their heads toward the sky in anticipation of their mothers’ next nourishment drop. Once these babies are on their own, their first few trips to the feeders are both comical and worrisome. They teeter on the perches, fighting to remain upright. They struggle to figure out how to turn toward the food while maintaining their balance. And just when it looks like they’re about to relax into a meal, an older bird swoops in and scares them back to Square One. The laborious process begins again, but their confidence is shakier than before. The feeder is a class in bird behavior and an inkling of how much the fledglings must learn in order to survive.


Hearing a Different Tune
Confidence was no problem for one unusually small young Sparrow. He swiftly mastered the balancing part of the feeder routine, and approached the eating stage in a far more direct manner. He worked his way down the perch until he could lean against the ceramic wall of the feeder. After a bit of maneuvering, he managed to extend his right foot up onto the edge of a feeder opening and hoist his upper body in through the opening. All I could see of the diminutive acrobat was his tail and his left leg. He got what he came for and I haven’t seen him since. But I will never forget his resourcefulness and chutzpah.

“The moment a little boy is concerned with which is a jay and which is a sparrow, he can no longer see the birds or hear them sing.”
—Eric Berne

I know precious little about birds. Many times I wish I could match the song or call I hear to the bird it’s coming from. Part of me wants to know more about their behavior and social structures. But I think I derive greater pleasure from their mystery, allowing it to stoke my imagination and my fondness for them.

A Barnyard Lady Killer Bids Farewell

He arrived at Catskill Animal Sanctuary with 13 ewes and lambs and he was bad to the bone. There wasn’t a stall that could pen him in, not a creature who had authority over him. The humans called him Rambo, for he was all horn and rage—until…at last…he wasn’t. He transformed from wild to wise and became the self-proclaimed guardian of all the barnyard animals. He herded them, rescued them, guided them, and comforted them. They looked up to the Jacob ram and, if they were female, had a crush on him.

Yes, Rambo attracted the fairer sex of many species, especially the wingèd variety. Barbie, the rescued broiler hen, was one of his favorites. In Animal Camp, CAS director Kathy Stevens describes seeing Rambo approach Barbie and hoof the ground, the signal he used with humans to get a massage out of them. But Barbie didn’t understand the signal, so Rambo showed her what he meant: Ever so gently, he massaged her body with the tip of his horn. A few days later, Rambo could be seen relaxing in the barn with a busy Barbie at his side, pulling hay from his coat. As their relationship intensified, so did the jealousy of Hannah the sheep.

Hannah fancied herself the rightful mate of Rambo, in a Fatal Attraction kind of way, and was never far from the object of her affections. In fact, she fretted if he wasn’t in her sightlines. As Stevens entered the barn one day, she saw Rambo but no Hannah. This was odd and prompted her to ask a CAS employee about Hannah’s absence.

“She’s in time out.”

“What happened?” asked Stevens.

“She head-butted Barbie halfway across the aisle.” Hell hath no fury…

As Rambo aged, arthritis gripped his body and slowed him down, but it didn’t impair his sense of responsibility to his flock. A couple of months ago when the cows escaped, he couldn’t round them up himself so he did the next best thing: He hobbled to the humans and alerted them to the situation. Stevens knew Rambo would soon face his final transformation and she tried to steel herself for it.

She was right. Last Saturday Rambo transformed from earthbound to spirit while surrounded by everyone who loved him, both human and nonhuman. In a fitting portent, just the day before, the sanctuary had welcomed 14 sheep rescued from neglect—one of them a Jacob ram. While a new era begins for the flock, it seems Rambo’s legacy is sure to continue.

Just When I Thought Compassionate Humans Were An Endangered Species…

We attended a festival last weekend at which we noticed an odd sight. Between the tents of the vendors and the picnic tables near the food purveyors was a ring of opened folding chairs, roped together and lying on their sides. My curiosity got the best of me and I stepped up to the ring for a closer look.

In the center of the chairs was a Killdeer. At first I thought she was injured, but then I saw her clutch of speckled eggs, camouflaged nicely amongst the surrounding stones. It seemed a risky place to raise a family—in an open area of a frequently used park—but apparently this is typical Killdeer strategy.

We watched the bird from afar for a while—saw her perform her “Predator Distraction Dance” when she felt threatened and saw her mate swoop in to deliver food. We also heard numerous parents warn their children to keep their distance and not traumatize the bird, and we overheard a festival exhibitor explain how she and a few other exhibitors had first noticed the bird that morning and decided to protect the tiny family from the crowds by creating the wall of chairs.

This contrasted sharply with the last Killdeer-human interactions I’d witnessed at the Rolex Event last month: As a Killdeer was trying to herd her large brood across a triangular patch of grass with people milling about on all sides, one person allowed her dog to chase the chicks. They scattered in all directions, sending Mother Killdeer into a frenzy.

I know, I know. It’s fun for the canine. But not so much for the Killdeer.

So last weekend became memorable not for the festival, but for seeing SO MANY humans doing the right thing for one little bird and her potential family. They made my day.