Flock of Birds

Turkey.

Last year a flock of wild turkeys moved into the neighborhood. For a while, they were an oddity, a kind of over-stuffed and mean version of the peacock. Then they took to blocking traffic, slowly crossing roadways like great herds of bison, in no particular hurry and not at all concerned about the schedules of humans. And this too, was fine, as I harbored no resentment towards the deer, even though they also stop traffic. The turkeys though, do lack a certain soulful look in their eyes, and tend towards aggressive squawking and charging.  All gods creatures and whatnot.

Then, two weeks ago, their first batch of babies appeared. And they were cute, kind of. For a couple of days they looked like a great flock of somewhat ugly quail. But now, they don't. They look like the Skeksis from the Dark Crystal, only with the behavior of adolescents. And there are dozens of them. They feed outside the window in the early morning hours, climbing down from their roosts high in the old firs that surround the house. They are loud, and bully the other birds from the feeder. And they will only get bigger.

I want to resent them. For stealing my sleep, being loud and aggressive, driving away the baby chickadees, also just emerging into the world, for fighting and pooping everywhere. For being so very very turkey. But I can't. They are right, this is a lovely corner of the world in which to live and more than likely, they are also likely serving some kind of purpose, filling some niche of which I am unaware. Or, this time next year, we will have a turkey farm. Could go either way.

Notes On A Winter Day

Flake.

Today I am aware of sounds; the roar of the fire, the crinkling of falling flakes, the cat dragging it's dish across the kitchen floor. I call my parents to make sure they are tucked away, out of the storm. They are out gallivanting and in wonderful spirits. I remind myself not to underestimate them. Over breakfast, one of us cracks a joke that sends us into fits. Neither of us can remember it. The varied thrush is at the feeder. He is a strictly foul-weather friend. The house has been thoroughly cleaned, as other chores have been postponed. The cook book lies open to "pies" on the kitchen counter, and everywhere, another cup of tea.

Picture:
www.RubyGoneWild.com

Pecking Order

Seed.

For weeks now I have been at the mercy of an energetic flock of migrating (hopefully) Nuthatches. Nuthatches are beautiful. They are blue-winged and red-breasted with long black streaks of eyeliner highlighting their brows. They are also hoarders. They descend at feeders like a troupe of addicts, hyped up and in constant motion, not eating, but grabbing seed and storing it away in the nooks and crannies of nearby trees for later consumption. They can empty a half-gallon feeder in a little over a day and they are so many and so overwhelming that they have ousted all but the largest of the blue jays. They are pushy, messy and bad at sharing and making extra work for me. I know that they are just birds, and visitors to boot, but I miss the Junkos and Grosbeaks.

Then this morning, a small piece of justice. The squirrels, normally left out of the feeder entirely except for what falls the two stories to the ground, were up early this morning, frantically pulling away at the branches of the firs. Happily reaping the rewards of all the Nuthatch labor. And to all things a balance.

Photo

www.RubyGoneWild.com

Wait and Watch (III)

Feeder.

I love the simple act of hope that is the filling of a new bird feeder.  I love the idea of this modern ritual of offering, with no expectation of ownership or relationship.  There is something exciting about the anticipation of a new feeder.  I remember over the years the feeders at my parents house changing, morphing over time in accordance with their waxes and wanes of time, energy, and interest.  There were seeds for finches and sparrows, suet for nuthatches, chickadees and woodpeckers, and sweet nectar for hummingbirds.  Each feeder was carefully placed away from harm and visible from a window.  On sunny spring days my parents would finish their cup of coffee in silence, watching together the gathering of the neighborhood flock.  Now I too, sit and wait, watching for the world to notice my simple gift.

Photograph:

http://www.houzz.com/photos/1061657/Victorian-Birdhouse-Collection-eclectic-birdhouses-

In Plain Sight

Camouflage.

I have only just now, after years of bird watching and myriad course hours studying natural systems and animals really begun to see camouflage.  And I mean really see it, for the first time I am beginning to appreciate the complexity of the markings, how specifically they are developed, and why it is just so hard to spot wildlife.  The moment of this shift in my understanding came when I discovered that Siberian Tigers are not white, as one might think, but bright orange.  How then, you might ask,  do they camouflage themselves from their prey?  The trick is not in blending into the snow, but in blending into the bare orange limbs and tree trunks of the Siberian forest. 

I have been most struck by this in birds, returning over and over again to the pictures in the guidebooks, this time to look not only at the birds, but at their surroundings, seeing them in the greater context of their environment.  I wonder in what other areas of my life this new perspective can be applied, what else I have not been seeing.  Look around; see things differently.

Photographs:

 http://fireflyforest.net/firefly/2006/04/27/camouflaged-northern-cardinal/

 http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/screech%20owl?before=19