The Blue Jay Chronicles: An Addendum

“There’s more to a blue-jay than any other creature. … You may call a jay a bird. Well, so he is, in a measure—because he’s got feathers on him, and don’t belong to no church, perhaps; but otherwise he is just as much a human as you be.”
—from “Jim Baker’s Blue-Jay Yarn” in A Tramp Abroad, by Mark Twain

After reading up on Jays, I started putting out one of their favorite foods—raw peanuts in their shells. I hoped I was feeding Stubby in addition to The Trio, but I could never be sure. (Did you know that a Blue Jay can carry up to 5 acorns in his/her mouth and throat?)

Since the hawk incident, during which the juvenile Trio behaved like hooligans, the birds have flown under the radar. The week we had The Visitor was apparently a week of transformation in our yard and at the feeders, and we missed it. Once The Visitor left and we resumed our routine of nature-gazing out our front windows, we realized the mad industriousness of collecting and storing food for the winter had subsided. Even activity at our feeders had declined. Not only had The Trio departed, also absent was The Stubster—as well as dozens of sparrows and cardinals.

Then one morning I found Blue Jay feathers scattered under the feeder. I don’t know who made the attack, but my bet is on one of the many felines our neighbors allow to roam. I haven’t seen The Trio since.


Until yesterday! Of course, I don’t know if it’s the original members of The Trio or The Trio with a replacement, but it was great to hear them again in the backyard.

(The cat—or, rather, the cat’s person—is still on my grudge list, though.)

[Photo by J. Andrzej Wrotniak; art by Charlie Harper.]

The Blue Jay Chronicles: A Stranger Lurks

One sunny September afternoon, I headed up the road to visit with a neighbor. It was a glorious day and I was trying to take it all in—memorize the newest crimsons creeping out from the trees, the whiff of crushed acorns on the sidewalk, the warmth of the sun hitting against cool air. My reverie was short-lived, however.

A cacophony rose ahead of (and above) me. It was “My Trio of Blue Jays,” as I’d come to call them, and they sounded for all the world like their world was coming to an end. I shifted into alarm mode. Were they in danger? Had one been injured? I planted myself on the sidewalk and scanned a nearby tree for answers.

Finally I saw the object of their displeasure: a hawk (likely, a kite). Not a big one. Not much bigger than the Jays anyway. But a hawk nonetheless, and he wasn’t a bit afraid of the Trio. They hounded him (er, rather, Jayed him) around the tree branches. Never once actually touching him, they took turns shrieking louder and louder and faster and faster; they flapped their wings and jumped up and down and all the while, the hawk looked nearly bored.

“Really,” I thought I could hear him mutter. “Is this quite necessary?”

I’m not certain how threatened the Trio really felt. Their comic antics may have just been something to do on an otherwise dull day. Sometimes, you have to create your own joy.

[Top pic from Fall Foliage Web site; bottom pic by Heather Pickard.]

Solitude in the City

Yesterday I rose at 4:00, which wasn't nearly enough sleep for me. But it's one of my favorite times of the day because it's so blessedly quiet. The typical city soundscape—airplanes' hum, cars' honking, children's hectoring, phones' ringtones—is set on mute and my brain seems to fire on more cylinders in response. When I was employed, I enjoyed editing during this time; in fact, could get twice as much accomplished.

Yesterday, I spent the time roaming the Web for job opportunities. Cardinals sang in the background and from the next room came the penny-whistle snore of my hound. 

Then a shrill cry broke the spell. I don't know if the cry itself makes me shiver or if  (more likely) it's knowing what that cry portends. 

It was a hawk. What kind, I'm not sure. I've observed three different varieties in my neighborhood in the last year: peregrine falcon, marsh hawk, and goshawk. At one time I could tell the difference between the hawks according to what they left behind of a meal. I'd share it with you, but now can't remember and haven't been able to find the original source of that information.

As I've mentioned before, I'm delighted to have any kind of wildlife variety in the 'hood. And I realize every creature has to eat. I just don't like hearing the hawk's dinner bell. I've seen the terror it wreaks upon the pigeon community and can only imagine what it does to the bunny community. I'm food chain–averse and prefer to focus on the nonviolent aspects of animals in my midst.

When I start overempathizing with animals (how can you not empathize with them, though?), I should call to mind this quote  from orator Robert G. Ingersoll: "In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments—there are consequences."