Sometimes green means stop, look, and pay attention.
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Productivity. A word that has long enjoyed favored status in U.S. culture. Americans are always trying to do more work in less time so we can… do even more work. We purchase time-saving apps and appliances and then fill the promised free-time that closed the deal with new projects and expectations.
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As the saying goes, when you’re a hammer everything looks like a nail. Of course, that assume you stop the work of pounding away occasionally to look around.
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I aspire to a zen “be here now” life but most days I miss the mark by a wide margin. Instead, I hammer down each nail on my to-do list, usually thinking about the next task or the one after that before completing the current one (and often ending up with a swollen thumb as a result). Yesterday was no exception.
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Until, suddenly, it was.
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Exiting my car with plastic shopping bag handles queued up along my forearms I charged down the sidewalk, mental blinders on, jaw set. Still, I did notice the row of tall limelight hydrangeas that hug my red brick building slouching beneath their load of heavy, fragrant, pale chartreuse blooms buzzing with activity. “Honey bees,” I assumed dismissively, since a nearby restaurant keeps several hives, and continued on without breaking my stride.
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Then I was blinded by the light of a sunbeam reflecting off an iridescent copper-green carapace.
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I stopped in my tracks, oblivious to the increasing numbness in my hands, and watched one green June beetle (Cotinis nitida), then several more, stumble drunkenly around and through the blossoms. Glancing at other blooms I saw all kinds of colorful insects had shown up for the banquet, including other beetles and bees, butterflies, moths, flies, spiders, and wasps. The realization that I was, yet again, missing my life for the sake productivity hit me over the head like a ball-peen.
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Time to take a deep breath and smell the hydrangeas. I rushed inside, left my groceries in a heap on the kitchen table, hurried back downstairs, out the door…
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and…
slowed…
waaaaay…
down.
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I spent the next hour losing track of time while I conducted an informal census of bug life in the flower gardens around my building and neighborhood. My goal was enjoyment, not identification. Eyes opened wide. Really seeing.
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How easy it is to forget that being unproductive is sometimes the most important work of all.
Robert Frost said, “Good fences make good neighbors” but embattled red-bellied woodpeckers must find other ways to protect their territories. (Photo: Brian Peterson, Creative Commons license)
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Last Sunday morning I unexpectedly found myself sitting ringside for a brief but furious brawl. Two male red-bellied woodpeckers (Melanerpes carolinus) were having a boundary dispute that started with an argument over some shrubbery then escalated into a full-on aerial assault. Colliding mid-air, they grasped one another by the feet and were so intent on punching, pecking, and plucking, the adversaries flew thoughtlessly over the nearby road directly in front of my car. Luckily, I was making my way slowly along the otherwise quiet suburban street, so I was able to stop and watch.
With my windshield serving as an impromptu HDTV, the smackdown aired for all of 45 thrilling seconds and then, as if in response to a referee’s break command… it was all over. Each fighter retreated, shouting insults over his shoulder as he returned to his corner.
Red-bellied woodpeckers (let’s just shorten that to RBWs, shall we?) are a medium-sized bird—just over 9” (24 cm) from chisel beak to stiff tail tips with a 13-16” (33-42 cm) wingspan. Like many North American woodpeckers, they wear a black-and-white houndstooth jacket, but their bright red Mohawk (males sport a full forehead-to-neck cap while females wear an abbreviated version) sets them apart. It’s also the reason these birds are so often misidentified as the similar-sized red-headed woodpecker (Melanerpes erythrocephalus), although once the difference is pointed out the mistake is rarely repeated. RBWs take their name from a subtle scarlet stain on their buffy belly.
Year-round residents in U.S. wetlands, river bottoms, woods, and wooded suburbs from the Midwest east to the Atlantic coast, RBWs are omnivorous, consuming all manner of insects, nuts, seeds, sap, and fruit. They store surplus food in various nooks and crannies and, since they don’t migrate, their larders come in handy during winter. This species employs gender-specific foraging strategies—males search for sustenance primarily along bole while females spend the bulk of their time on the boughs.
Biologists don’t often venture out on a limb to officially identify any non-human behavior as play, but I’ve notice the profession has loosened up a bit on this issue over the past decade or so, thankfully. One example of this trend was a description of RBW behavior I read recently. This species will periodically engage in swift, nimble, and unpredictable forest flights, complete with many direction changes to dodge trees, and accompanied by constant excited chatter. The author of this resource was quick to explain that the activity probably has a practical application in that it helps youngsters practice evasive maneuvers that would come in handy should predators be lurking about. However, and surprisingly, the expert also admitted the birds seemed to be having fun.
RBWs are monogamous—for the extent of a breeding season, that is (so perhaps it would be more accurate to say they are serial monogamists)—and both are actively involved in raising young. They nest in hardwood and pine trees, along with the occasional fence post, by excavating a cavity or stealing one from other birds. What goes around comes around, though—or so says a timeworn adage; RBWs often lose their precious nest holes, in turn, to European (aka common) starlings (Sturnus vulgaris).
Assuming the pair can hang on to their home, the female lays two to six white eggs on a cushion of wood chip construction debris and incubates them for 12 days. The hatchlings are altricial, meaning they begin their lives naked, blind, and helpless. They don’t waste any time growing up, and are ready to leave the nest for a first tentative flight when they are 24—27 days old. Depending on the region, the adults may raise from one to three broods in a season.
Defending the homestead is a top priority during the child-rearing seasons, especially if the ‘hood includes a well-tended feeder (a gold mine for species able to digest seeds or suet). Even though most bird nestlings can’t tolerate seeds and need a diet composed largely of insects, when Mom and Dad can grab a high-calorie meal from the avian equivalent of a fast-food restaurant, they have extra time to hunt for the more illusive foods their offspring need to develop properly.
Since RBW territories range from 3 to 39 acres protecting the perimeter is far from a simple task, especially when feeding yourself and your family is a full-time job. So, naturally, breaches occur… but everyone trespasses and is trespassed against. Border skirmishes are common but they rarely result in bloodshed. Research tells us that’s due, in part, to the fact that the intensity of defense behavior tends to decrease as an animal moves away from the center of its territory. Put another way, property rights become less important the farther you are from home. In most cases, both combatants throw in the towel long before there’s a knock-out.
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A male Eastern bluebird personifies happiness, whether he’s happy about it or not (Photo: Jason Matthews, Creative Commons license)
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Happiness is a shy little bird. Hiding from sight in life’s nooks and crannies, impossible to find if you look but then it darts out and lands on your shoulder just when you least expect it. It sidles up beside you like a pickpocket on a crowded street, soft and silent as wings brushing against your lapel. Hardly even noticed until something or someone causes it to flush in a flurry of feathers from beneath your jacket, taking with it a sizeable chunk of your heart. Try to grab hold as it flies away and the thief proves as elusive as dreams upon waking, slipping through your fingers like a shadow, like quicksilver.
The concept of happiness has been flitting in and out of my brain and my life for a couple of weeks now. My birthday earlier this month may have provided the initial impulse. This wasn’t a major milestone year, I’ve got too much on my plate these days to leave much room for cake, plus I’m living in a new town and don’t know many people yet… but I did take a little time to acknowledge the day and do some thinking. December 31st may be the culturally accepted time to contemplate one’s short- or long-term past and make plans for the year to come, but my inner-Pagan knows the vernal equinox is the true start of a new trip around the sun. Besides, I’m not much for following the crowd. I was the kind of kid who would disassemble all the board games in the house, shuffling the tokens and cards to make up my own game with my own rules. So I like the idea of a personal calendar that begins in April, and a personal New Year’s Eve for reviewing said year is also appealing. Later that same week, two unanticipated events provided additional incentive to ponder the nature of happiness.
Then again, maybe I’ve had happiness on my mind because the bluebirds have returned.
Mountain bluebird pair
This year, I’ve been watching eastern bluebirds (Sialia sialis) each morning while my terrier-boy practices his soccer moves on a squeaky red rubber ball. At other times in my life, while living in other parts of the U.S., I’ve watched spring come to town on the wings of both western and mountain bluebirds (S. Mexicana and S. currucoides, respectively). A feathered piece of sky flashing across the landscape on shallow wing beats can lift a heavy heart and lighten my mood.
Members of the Turdidae family (aka thrushes), bluebirds are related to that other famous spring harbinger, the American robin (Turdus migratorius). All three Sialia species are easy to spot and identify even though, as fruit and insect eaters, they don’t visit seed-filled feeders. The males are clad in some combination of blue with red and/or white; their mates wear less conspicuous versions of the same plumage.
Efforts to ensure this popular bird’s continued breeding success began with the recognition that they were struggling in the face of competition from introduced species such as the European starling (Sturnus vulgaris) and house sparrow (Passer domesticus), as well as reduced access to nesting habitat. Happily, by building, installing, monitoring, and maintaining special nest boxes, handy men and women across the U.S. have proven crucial to the species’ recovery.
Bluebirds have long symbolized cheerfulness, health, prosperity, and renewal, although I’m not sure why. Their lives are far from easy or free of conflict. Males battle over breeding territories, chasing one another at breakneck speeds, grabbing each other by the feet in mid-air, smacking opponents with their wings as they try to pull each others feathers out with their beaks. They must defend nest cavities or boxes from a host of other birds, many of which are substantially larger. Once a nest site has been established, a mated pair may produce 2-4 broods per season—a task that requires foraging non-stop during daylight hours to find enough food to keep themselves and their offspring fed. If that were not challenge enough, bluebirds undertake an exhausting and hazardous migration of up to 2,000 miles each autumn and spring.
Female Eastern bluebird
Despite these hardships, some sources claim the connection between blue birds and happiness is global (albeit focused on bird species indigenous to each country or continent). One thing is certain—the notion, however it began, has been perpetuated by Hollywood and on the radio. I have to wonder if any other bird has been as popular with songwriters and singers, starting with Bluebird of Happiness, a hit song in the early 1930s that may have ushered this phrase into the popular vernacular. Judy Garland probably helped things along when she sang of bluebirds flying Somewhere Over the Rainbow. For those who like both their birds and their grass blue, there’s Lester Flatt’s Bluebirds Singing For Me. Paul McCartney, Buffalo Springfield, Bonnie Raitt and, more recently Christina Perri and Adam Green all feature bluebirds on their playlist. Sara Bareilles’ poignant Bluebird tells of a kind of migration, but my own favorite blue bird tune, Birdhouse in Your Soul by They Might Be Giants, transports me to a happy scene, sitting at the kitchen table of a remote lake house in a faraway forest.
Emotions can be tricky to articulate and color can help paint a clearer picture. I get that. If a friend says she’s in the pink or he’s green with envy, you know the score even without the details (although you may still want to hear them). Red is, of course, the color of both anger and passion (maybe that’s why one so often leads to the other). Blue is happiness—at least, that’s what a little bird told me. But is it? If I say I’m feeling blue you’re not likely to picture me in your mind’s eye singing in the rain ala Gene Kelly.
Western bluebirds
How did a single color come to represent both sides of the spectrum, sadness and joy? I wish I knew, but I’m not sure it matters in the long run. I do know this: happiness prefers an open palm to an iron grip. It doesn’t do well when caged; like a wild bird, it needs to be free to come and go as it chooses. A full life requires both kinds of blue plus all the other colors and creatures, winter and spring, parting and reunion. If you want to have happiness in your life you must be willing to risk losing it, trusting that it will return as surely as bluebirds in April. That’s the trade-off, the price you pay for the flutter of wings in your heart and stomach.
But worth every penny.
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By the end of winter, the fruit upon which cedar waxwings depend can pack a real punch (Photo: Eve Fraser-Corp, Creative Commons license)
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I recently came across a report that cedar waxwings (Bombycilla cedrorum) have returned to Texas. Every time I hear someone mention this species I’m reminded of my days as director of a wildlife center in Houston. For a few weeks every year the waxwings would show up by the cardboard box-full and the rehabilitation clinic would turn into… well, a different kind of rehab center.
With their handsome, distinctive plumage, even a newbie birder can easily recognize this species. Their yellow tail- and red wing-tips look as if they’ve been dipped in sealing wax—thus the name. With a range that covers much of North America, waxwings aren’t rare but they’re not as common as some of our iconic backyard birds, so it’s always a bit of a thrill when they’re in the neighborhood.
They’re one of only a handful of avian species in the U.S. and Canada whose diet is composed largely (but not entirely) of fruit, a useful characteristic when one shares a breeding territory with brown-headed cowbirds (Molothrus ater) and other nesting parasites—females who don’t bother to build a nest of their own. Instead, they leave their eggs in the nests of other birds and the cowbird chicks are cared for like biological children. In fact, the foster nestling normally out-competes the surrogate’s own offspring when food is being passed out but the high-sugar diet provided by waxwing parents, while perfect for their own kids, causes the cowbird to waste away.
Waxwing adaptability has allowed them to benefit from the introduction of non-native fruit-bearing plants used in urban and suburban landscaping. For example, they seem to love honeysuckle… and it shows. The red pigment in the exotic vine’s berries can turn the bird’s canary tail-tips bright orange, a plumage change birders and ornithologists first began to notice in the 1960s.
Waxwings travel in flocks that may include 40+ individuals, all searching for pyracantha and privet, choke cherries, mulberries, and any other tree or shrub that bears sugary fruit. Once they’ve gobbled up every last berry, they move along without a backward glance.
Unless the fruit is spiked.
It’s not a matter of someone trying to contribute to avian delinquency. From late autumn until plants have produced new spring and summer crops, last season’s berries, drupes, drupelets, pomes, and other sweet seed containers hang on, growing inceasingly less… fresh, shall we say. Temperature fluctuations and the presence of wild yeasts often will cause fruit to ferment in situ. Migration and colder temperatures make for voracious birds and the waxwings are carbo-loading as fast as they can swallow. They don’t seem to notice some of the snacks pack a punch. When you weigh slightly more than an ounce, the alcohol content doesn’t have to be very high to knock you for a loop. Next thing you know, birds are careening around on the front lawn like New Year’s Eve.
It can look rather comical but it’s no laughing matter. Many inebriated birds are seriously injured or are killed when they fly into cars and windows.
Good Samaritans across the county scoop disoriented birds into cardboard boxes and head for the nearest wildlife rehabilitation center. There, the birds are given a head-to-toe, beak-to-tail examination. Most of the patients are simply allowed to safely sleep it off in a warm, dark room before being released to continue their travels… although they probably set out with a doozy of a headache.
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See the geese in chevron flight, a-flapping and a-racing on before the snow
They’ve got the urge for going, and they’ve got the wings to go.
~ Joni Mitchell, The Urge for Going
Vaguely aware of dusk approaching, I was sitting at the kitchen counter grading homework assignments. Normally, I don’t like to stop in the middle of a paper but I heard a clarion call that made me bolt for the door without a second thought—the rasping two-note hank-honk, hank-honk of Canada geese. For me, this sound is the very essence of autumn and wanderlust, and I responded instinctively.
My disappointment at not being able to sprout feathers and tag along was tempered by the fact that I could tell this particular flock wasn’t going very far. They were resident geese, a relatively new concept that refers to birds that hang around all year long rather than migrate with the changing seasons. The urge for going, it seems, does not reside in the heart of every Canada goose.
Scientists used to think migration was an undeniable impulse. This idea gained strength following experiments in which some species of wild birds were raised in captivity under circumstances that prevented them from experiencing environmental signals, yet they continued to behave like their uncaged brethren. For example, when allowed to fly they demonstrated a preference for the same direction as the migratory path their conspecifics in the wild were navigating. The urge for going is strong among many birds, including warblers and vireos, northern pintails and blue-winged teals. Canada geese, however, seem able to take migration or leave it, at least those living in the burgs and ‘burbs.
Wildlife biologists are supposed to take a dim view of anthropomorphism, but when I observe a flock of resident geese at this time of year my overactive mind hears an urban waterfowl couple discussing their winter travel plans, à la Pixar:
Goose (voiced by Betty White): Dear, I’ve been thinking… wouldn’t it be nice to skip the move down south and just stay put this year?
Gander (voiced by Robert Duvall): Now, Mother, what’s gotten into that feathered head of yours? We can’t just skip migration! It’s a tradition in our family that goes back more generations that anyone can count! What would the rest of the flock say?!
Goose: Some of the flock did stay behind last year, you know, and it worked out just fine. Travel is so metabolically expensive… maybe it would be smart to consider a staycation. Just think about it. That’s all I ask.
One feature of the urban landscape that makes winter survival easier for resident geese, even in northern states, is the heat island effect. Cities have a lot of thermal mass. According to the U.S. EPA, evening temperature differences can be as large as 22°F (12°C). That means lakes and ponds freeze over less often—an appealing feature for waterfowl. And the food supply at a park or on a golf course is plentiful year-round.
When faced with the question, “should I stay or should I go?” more and more geese are choosing to stay. And why not?
How did I know the geese winging past my door were year-round neighbors? Migrating geese can be seen flying high and fast unless they’re heading down to rest and refuel. My geese were flying low and slow, gaining altitude only when necessary to avoid colliding with power lines and apartment buildings. Knowing I’d see them again if I keep my ears open, I bid them goodnight, said hello to the nearly full moon, and stepped back inside to grade… and dream of flight.
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High winds and rain here in Virginia earlier this week have left once-vivid foliage tossed and trampled on the ground like Election Night confetti. The red-orange-yellow pallet of October is shifting to browns, taupes, and grays. With the hyperbole of early autumn behind us, bare boughs and blue skies offer the perfect opportunity to pull back the leafy curtain for a peek “behind the scenes.” All you need to do is step outside… and make the leap from two dimensions into 3D.
Sure, we all know it’s a three-dimensional world but, with the exception of a flight of stairs now and then, our days are usually spent in a forward-backward-left-right routine. Skeptical? Spend even a few minutes watching a gray or fox squirrel ricochet through some timber and I guarantee you’ll feel like your days are spent in Flatland.
Unlike many mammals, squirrels make it easy for wildlife watchers. They’re not shy, they’re active during the day, and much of their activity occurs within the visual field between our feet and our face. Of course, while we keep our feet planted firmly on the ground, squirrels do not, and when they bolt up the bole into dense foliage they seem to disappear like a campaign promise. What good does it do to look up?
In parts of the country that have both squirrels and seasons when the trees go au naturel, craning one’s neck can be more rewarding during the fall. That’s why I’m trying to cultivate a new habit when out for a walk. Whenever I catch myself contemplating my shoes, I lift my eyes and scan the trees, starting at about the same level as the roof of a two-story house. Try it yourself. See those seemingly accidental wads of leaves and twigs, about the size of a football, caught in the gutters formed by branches? Those are squirrel nests, also known as dreys.
Squirrels aren’t as famous for their engineering skills as are beavers but maybe they should be. It can’t be easy to build 20 feet or more above the ground on a foundation that sways with every breeze. Construction begins with a platform of woven twigs, followed by a spherical framework secured to the base. Leaves, paper, and moss are used to fill in the gaps and create a snug, weatherproof abode with two doorways—a main entrance and a hidden escape hatch. The exterior may look a little rustic but the décor is luxurious. Lined with fur, feathers and other cozy furnishings, it’s the perfect cocoon for a cold winter’s night.
Squirrels don’t hibernate but they do lie low during inclement weather. When the mercury drops or the snow starts to fly, a group of females may crowd into a single drey to share the warmth–kind of like a slumber party without the pajamas, pizza, and prank phone calls.
As spring approaches, the dreys serve a dual purpose as nurseries for the new crop of infants. I realize not everyone is a fan, but if you’re a squirrel aficionado and want the scoop on where to enjoy watching for youngsters when they venture out to explore the world and bounce among the branches, now’s the time to make note of which trees are littered with messy nests. Just think 3D… without the funny glasses.
Have a question about wildlife and other next-door nature? Send me an email and the answer may turn up as a future blog post. And don’t forget to friend NDN on Facebook!
Wildlife habitat—what images come to mind when you hear those words? Sweeping vistas where windblown grasses ripple like ocean waves, steep slabs of snow and stone high up on a mountain, or perhaps the dappled shadow and light of a forest primeval?
How about glass-and-concrete skyscraper canyons, emerald green fairways shimmering with sprinkler system generated dew, or the metal halide-lit expanse of asphalt surrounding a shopping mall?
People tend to think of the places we live and work—the places architects, landscape designers, and urban planners call “the built environment”—as removed from the natural world as if it exists on a separate plane or planet. This helps to reinforce our conceit that humans are not indigenous, that we’re some kind of exotic or introduced species. But human beings are animals, mammals to be exact. Cities and suburbs are simply another kind of habitat… and not just for humanity.
True, most of the non-human species among us are not the ones who lived here before the people moved in. Once development starts, the wild creatures are either lucky (they happen to be well-suited to the newly created landscape), adaptable (they figure out a way to tolerate or exploit the new neighbors), or gone. But there’s no such thing as a vacant lot in nature. When the original residents move out it creates an opportunity for someone else. Once the construction dust settles it doesn’t take long before wildlife watching can begin.
Why plunk down a wad of bills for a once-in-a-lifetime trip to “the wilderness” when you’re living smack dab in the middle of unique and genuine wildlife habitat? Yours to enjoy every single day of your life without getting on a plane or hiring sherpas or buying a bunch of new gear (although there’s plenty to be had should you choose to indulge). Let’s call it urban ecotourism. All you need to begin this safari is a willingness to open the door, open your eyes, and look at things from another perspective.
This blog is intended to help you do just that—to become aware of an entire community hiding in plain sight, invisible only because your brain thinks you already know the place like the back of your hand. I’ll show you who’s living there and explain the reasons why so you’ll be able to make your own discoveries. Hopefully you’ll share some of those discoveries in the comments section of this blog. Have a question? It could turn into a future blog post so feel free to send me an email.
Until next time, I’m going for a walk among the wild things. Want to come along?
