For nearly
three decades we have fed and observed birds that inhabit our surroundings.
Living surrounded by forest, we don’t have that many species around us, as we
might have, if we lived near open fields. Numerous species migrate through in
the spring or fall, but only a dozen or so are regulars. Of them, many keep to
the woods, so about a half dozen are consistently at the feeder, and those are the
ones we watch and get to know on a day-to-day basis.
Over these
decades, therefore, we’ve become quite familiar with the behaviors and
personalities of our resident avian companions. I can watch a titmouse, for
example, and almost predict what it will do next—how long it’ll sit at the
feeder, how many seeds it will grab, how it will interact with another titmouse
there, how and where it will fly after feeding, etc. Their behaviors will vary
with the seasons, but again in a quite predictable manner. It’s similar to how
we observe and interact with a beloved family member, when their habits and
quirks become deeply ingrained in us.
This level of familiarity becomes such a part of our
routine that we hardly notice it—like the way in which we prepare our morning
cup of coffee or tea. So when something comes along out of the ordinary, it
grabs our attention. When I reach for my favorite tea cup before breakfast, and
it’s not where it’s “supposed to be,” I’m rattled a bit. Dammit! Where did my
wife hide it? My attention is momentarily and completely drawn to this
unexpected event.
Similarly, in mid-late summer our attention often gets
seized by a bird that is behaving unusually, for its species. What? A chickadee
doesn’t normally do that! Why is that wren acting so weird? What’s gotten into
the mourning dove? Something about their demeanor is odd and we notice it.
As our awareness is drawn toward the bird, we then might notice
that its actions are not at all well-coordinated. It doesn’t seem to be adroit
in its behavior. It flutters around kind of aimlessly, as if unsure what to do
next. Its attention is diverted by most anything. It seems to have no specific
intent in mind. It may clumsily fly to a tree branch but misjudge how to
land—finding itself upside down, clinging confusedly to a twig, rocking back
and forth.
At this point we realize that we’re watching a
newly-fledged youngster. Its flight is erratic. It’s not sure what to consider
as food, so it pecks at most anything in front of it—most of it obviously inedible.
It frequently drops to the ground, unaware that it’s far more vulnerable down
there. (That’s why we keep our cat in the house during the day.) Adult birds
are perky and fun to watch and their behavior is deliberate. Fledglings are
simply hilarious and you never know what they will do next. Our familiarity
with the ways of adults does nothing to prepare us for the antics of the youngsters.
This ungainly behavior doesn’t last long. Animals in the
wild must mature very quickly or they perish. They don’t have the luxury of
extended parental care. A baby bird transitions from egg to fledgling in about
two weeks—fully the size of its parent. In another few days it’s on its own,
and we are no longer able to chuckle at its awkward bearing. They grow up fast!
Some youngsters quickly disperse and go off to lead their
own lives. Unable to follow them into the forest, we’re not sure how well they
fare. I don’t think we want to know. We’ve watched their parents work so hard
to bear and protect them, that we hate to see their offspring die so soon. The
mortality rate for songbirds is high—more than half die within the first year.
Some youngsters take another route and hang around for a few
months, helping mom and pop raise subsequent broods, before they attempt to go
it on their own. Maybe that’s a surer way to get started in life. But unlike teenage
kids, they won’t be goofing off, watching TV, sleeping in, or playing video
games. The life of a songbird is not one of leisure, even when we provide a
feeder for them. Bees might have a reputation for being busy, but birds are no
slouches.
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