The goldfinches visiting the garden in winter are not as brightly coloured as they were last summer, but the little dears are welcome visitors for all that. Their delight on discovering that our feeders have been topped up with fresh munchies for their breakfast buffet is something to behold.
Alas, most of the last week has been spent clearing countless cubic meters of white stuff from around the little blue house in the village. At times, the threshold, cobblestones, driveway, sundeck and steps have disappeared from view completely, and getting out and about to do anything at all has been quite an exercise.
In winter, I shovel a circular track around the garden for Beau, but recent heavy snowfalls filled it in over and over again, and it has been dredged out several times this week. Himself has often been up to his houndy ears in icy snow, and he is not amused.
After waiting out high winds and heavy snowfall in the cedar hedge, village birds are hungry, and first thing in the morning, the garden is filled with clamorous fluttery folk waiting for their breakfast. Before anything else is done, bird feeders are cleaned and refilled, and a few handfuls of seed are scattered on the deck for ground noshers.
Cardinals, chickadees, blue jays, nuthatches, woodpeckers and winter finches (pine siskins, redpolls, crossbills) visit often, but sparrows and juncos are always about. How can one not feel affection for the tiny feathered spirits who visit every day and chirrup appreciatively when food is put out for them, even in the most inclement weather? I keep hoping that grosbeaks will turn up, but so far they have not put in an appearance, preferring rural and suburban areas and only showing up here when desperate.
Juncos and sparrows are always welcome. I once wrote here about an icy morning when a sparrow flew into the house, made himself comfortable in the sunlit dining room for several minutes and sang joyously, then flew back out into the garden when he had warmed up a bit and had something to eat. Sparrows are as numerous here in winter as they are in most urban areas, but it is always a pleasure to spend time with the little passerines when other bird kin have migrated to warmer climes.
Depths is an appropriate word in these circumstances. We are almost drowning in snow, and village snow plows are fast running out of places to put it.
Through the open window came a familiar high pitched song, a springtime cantrip of staccato cadence, kee-kee-kee-kee-kee. The song was cheerful, but our feelings on hearing it were ambivalent. Down went books and cups of tea, up came the camera, and out to the garden we went, Beau and I.
A young male merlin (Falco columbarius)
was perched in a tree in the corner of the garden and was announcing his
fierce and lusty presence to the world at the top of his lungs. A
merlin's song in springtime carries for some distance, and within a few
minutes a second male arrived on the scene. There was a brief frantic
tussle and the interloper flew off toward the river with dejection in
every plume and pinion.
Once called "pigeon hawks", the little falcons are fast moving, agile
and deadly predators and fearless - they don't think twice about
attacking anything that moves. Somewhat elusive, they have never been
numerous here, but a few pairs nest in a nearby wooded area, and we
suspect our visitor was a member of that community.
Several years ago,
plans to turn part of a local park into a traffic circle were derailed when a
small colony of nesting merlins was discovered in it, and the birds
have been nesting there ever since. The decision to leave the park and
its residents alone was one of those rare occasions when Mother Nature
wins a round, and we were absolutely jubilant when it was announced.
The sighting was a wonderful thing, but we hope our falcon moves on and stays away from the garden for several
weeks. Cardinals, chickadees and house finches are nesting in our hedgerows, and
the dear little falcons, as much as we admire them, are not particularly welcome at this
time of the year. Their continued presence does not bode well for our diligently parenting songbirds.
Why is it that I can never remember the names of television programs, movies and popular celebrities but always remember the names
of plants, animals, insects and birds? Even long obscure Latin
names linger in this dusty old sconce.
Once upon a time, when women were birds, there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten, that the world is meant to be celebrated.
Terry Tempest Williams, When Women Were Birds
