Contemplating Critters

     I recently took an online course in animal behavior from a Dutch university. As part of the lessons, we were asked to develop our observing skills by spending at least 10 minutes watching an animal. We were encouraged to take notes and to be as detailed as possible. I pondered how I might take on this assignment, given that many of my local animals would be very unlikely to stay in one spot for that long. I also felt that if I got too close to a critter, my presence would alter its behavior, and thus my observations may not be representative of it or its species.

        I love to watch birds at the feeder—which gets lots of avian traffic, but rather than stick around, each bird flits in, grabs a seed, and flies off. There's no chance of watching it for more than a few seconds. I could possibly watch a specific bird over several minutes, as it repeatedly returns to the feeder, but I can't tell one individual bird from another, so I might be seeing several different individuals.

So that brings up a question: If I were able to watch one critter for 10 minutes and wrote down my observations, how indicative of the species' behavior would that individual be? Maybe instead I could learn something about bird behavior by watching many different species of birds come to the feeder. That's one of my favorite activities anyway.  So maybe I could learn as much about animal behavior by contemplating groups of them, rather than just one.

Well, I've done this for several years now and have noted the varying behaviors of a number of different species. For instance, chickadees and titmice fly in, grab a seed, and fly to a perch, where they lodge the seed between their feet, and then bang away, breaking through the shell for the meat inside. A dove will sit at the feeder, downing one whole seed after another. A finch will pick up a seed and crack it with its powerful bill, and pick out the meat with its deft tongue. A Carolina wren will squat in the middle of the feeder, fastidiously poke at one seed or another, tossing away all but the fattest ones.

These observations have shown me over years how one species of bird behavior at the feeder differs from another species. But even within one species I see differences. For example, that goldfinch there was behaving much more aggressively than the others. That cardinal seems uncertain and slower than the others. That chickadee was far more meek than the others. That titmouse just challenged and chased off a wren, when most of the other titmice wouldn't have dared.

So what do I think about these individual differences I see? Which behaviors are species-specific and which are just the peculiar behavior of that individual bird? Like most of my observations of nature, I soon see a far more complex picture than at first. I guess I've no alternative but to put in a few more years of observation time.

Big Bad Bird

I've written before on the pecking order that birds establish at our feeder. Certain species of birds dominate or intimidate other species, in order to get first dibs at the feeder. Most often, the hierarchy appears to be determined by the relative sizes of the birds—but not always. While the larger cardinal will invariably dominate the smaller titmouse or chickadee, the smaller goldfinch will easily chase off the larger titmouse.

How can the more petite finch intimidate the bigger titmouse? I doubt that the small finch is conscious of its more diminutive size, since I would guess that most birds have no comprehension of how large they are. If they can't recognize themselves in a mirror (which they adequately demonstrate by pecking at their own reflection in a window), how can they have knowledge of how large they are, relative to another bird? It's got to be more than size.

In the case of a goldfinch facing off a titmouse, even though the former is smaller, its bill is far stronger. The finch can crush a hard seed with its tough beak, while a titmouse must lodge the seed in its claws and bang away repeatedly with its weaker bill, until the seed yields its hard shell. If the two of them were to engage in a battle for pecking order, the smaller goldfinch could deliver a painful bite that the titmouse would long remember. I think that Nature has built into the titmouse an innate knowledge that it would be foolish to challenge the finch. So the safe thing for the titmouse is to defer to the finch, wait, and go for a seed after it has satisfied itself.

The term pecking order comes form the jostling that occurs between barnyard hens, as they establish their hierarchy. The chickens' process must be different from songbirds, however, because chickens are one species, are similar in size, and in beak force. Their pecking order seems to be determined by experience; by conflict. It can be a rather vicious process to watch, but once the chicken hierarchy is resolved, relative peace reigns. For them, it’s not a case of an instinctive response, as it is for songbirds. Chickens learn it; songbirds inherit it.

On rare occasions I have observed a lower-order bird challenge a superior one, at the feeder. Aha, I think, it’s going against its inherited tendency! Something interesting is happening here. Is the normally less-dominant bird ignorant of its place in the pecking order? Is it foolishly taking a chance? Maybe it just accomplished a feat that required unusual bravery and is high on its audacious stunt? In these cases, sometimes the challenger wins, but I suspect that it will later come to its senses and once again defer to its evolutionary overlord, at its next trip to the feeder. Evolution does prevail, in the long run. The pecking order is perennial.

A Nest at Rest

My wife's sharp eye recently noticed some bird activity around the grill of our pickup truck. Looking closer, she noticed that a bird had built a nest in there, tucked into a corner, up against the radiator. It was most likely a Carolina wren nest, as they are inclined to select obscure locations in human structures, such as mail boxes, inside buildings (when a door is left open for a few days), or even in pockets of shirts on the clothesline. It's almost as if they feel that raising a brood near human structures will keep them safe from animal predators.

As I peered into the dark recess of the truck's grill, a bird flew off. Yes, it was a Carolina wren. To see if it had laid eggs, I gingerly stuck a finger into the nest and felt several tiny eggs—about the size of a fingernail. It's a good thing that we only occasionally use the truck, because for the next 2-3 weeks mom and pop would need to be left alone to raise their babies. Fortunately, small songbirds can lay, brood, hatch, and fledge their young in 3-4 weeks. We decided to keep a good distance from the truck, so as not to disturb the prospective family.

Several days passed, during which we kept a keen eye from a distance, but saw no action. That was worrisome. The eggs should have hatched by now, and we'd expect to be seeing the parents making frequent trips to feed their babies. I slowly approached the truck to investigate. No bird flew out. Reaching in, I once again felt several eggs. Hmmm... that's a real concern. They should have been hatched by now. We'll wait a few more days, to be sure.

After a couple more days—still with no birds flying in or out—I once again checked and felt unhatched eggs. Something had clearly happened to cause the parents to abandon the nest. Why? We'll never know. Did a predator get one of them? I can't believe that our presence caused them to forsake the nest. Over the years we have watched several pairs of Carolina wrens raise a family right under our noses, in the garden shed or the workshop, while we wandered by, often ignorant of their presence, until lots of fledgling activity began.

Reaching carefully inside the truck's grill, I pulled out six tiny eggs, one by one. Six chicks that will never be. It's sad, but it's nature's way. The parents have likely already started another nest, in another disguised location—if they are still alive. Working slowly, I was able to extract most of the nest intact. I placed the delicate eggs inside it and for several minutes admired the exquisite workmanship (workbirdship?) of the nest and the beauty of its tiny eggs.

I decided to honor the nest and its unhatched embryos by placing them on a shelf in my meditation hut. They will make a fine object to focus my attention on—an ongoing reminder of the sacredness of all life. Eggshells breathe a little. In time, the interior of the eggs will desiccate and they should last for many years.

Scarce as Hen's Teeth

Most everyone knows that birds come with a hard beak, empty of any teeth. Thus the old saying I often heard my mom say, when something couldn't be found: “It's as scarce as hen's teeth.” Little did Mom know that hens—or, rather their deep ancestral forebears—once did have teeth. In fact, those toothy critters were birds' very deep ancestors (actually, dinosaurs), who lived over 100 million years ago.

In that ancient time the ancestors of today's birds were small, toothed dinosaurs that cohabited the planet with the really big toothy dinosaurs, like the formidable T-Rex. A great many species of dinosaurs presided over all living creatures on Earth, until that fateful day when an asteroid crashed down near the Mexican Gulf coast, 65 million years ago. The resultant disruption to Earth's climate soon wiped out the great dinos, but the smaller, feathered ones managed to squeak through.

Well before that asteroid crash, however, those bird ancestors had already lost their teeth. How do we know? New genetic analyses show that the toothed dinos long ago first lost their teeth at the front of their jaw, and the tooth loss then gradually moved rearward on the jaw. As this loss progressed, the hard beak slowly developed (I guess to give them something hard to mash their food with).

Bird evolution continued to occur, as the proto-birds also evolved flight feathers and even began to sing. As a fascinating example of how genes are shared across species (good evidence that we all co-evolved from even more primitive critters), the 50 or so genes that permitted birds to begin to sing are shared by us humans. These genes give us the ability to speak—and yes, sing, but certainly not like a bird.

But back to hen's teeth: Was a toothless bird more suited for surviving the asteroid impact than the dentally-equipped large dinosaurs? It was more likely a case of their larger size and the over-specialization of the huge dinos that did them in. In any case, the surviving proto-birds found countless available niches, after their dino cousins disappeared. When many niches are available, a species can rapidly multiply into many new species. That's why Earth currently supports more than 10,000 species of birds.

So, the proliferation of birds happened because the big dinosaurs, some 65 million years ago, became scarcer than hen's teeth.

Nighttime Niches—Part 2

Perching birds have evolved a neat trick that keeps them from tumbling off their roost, after they fall asleep. As a kid, I sometimes fell out of bed, but the floor was a lot closer for me than the ground is to a chickadee perched high in a tree. So evolution has given them an automatic clenching grip; a tendon in their leg that involuntarily locks onto the perch and won't let go until they awaken and straighten their leg. I guess they can't afford to have twitchy legs in the night, lest they come tumbling down.

(I jokingly envision a perching bird settling on an ice-coated twig on some winter night, locking its grip around the twig and promptly falling asleep. Soon its feet begin to melt the ice a little, the twig becomes slippery, and the bird flops over, head down, remaining asleep, with its claws still clamped to the twig. That's an unlikely scenario, but songbirds have been observed sleeping upside down—feet still locked onto the branch, even without ice.)

Once it finds a niche that seems to be safe from predators, a small bird's top priority becomes staying warm. Birds maintain a high body temperature (105^o F or more) and their tiny body loses heat quickly. Hence, their metabolism screams along at high speed—so high that they must spend many hours each day trying to fill their tiny tummies with enough food to fuel themselves. It can be a real threat for a bird to snooze through the night without eating—especially when the overnight temperatures drop precipitously.

So how do they keep from freezing? (When sudden cold snaps occur, in fact, many songbirds do perish.) First of all, evolution has given them feathers—a superb insulating coat. A bird will fluff its down feathers out beneath its outer flight feathers, and turn its head around, burying its face in its warm fuzzies. In fact, birds' ancestors—some species of dinosaurs—were the first to evolve feathers, partly to keep them warm. Feathers are a better insulator than mammal fur. Humans still strive to synthesize materials that do as well as goose down.

Second, some birds enter a state of torpor while they sleep—significantly lowering their body temperature to conserve energy. Tiny hummingbirds take this route. (Smaller birds lose body heat far faster than big birds.) But I wonder if a hummingbird could go so deep that it ignores the morning alarm clocks (other birds singing loudly), and thus miss filling its gustatory needs for the day.

Third, some birds seek out a nighttime perch that is not only safe from predators, but is much cozier than staying out in the cold: they tuck themselves into cavities or sneak into man-made shelters. Finally, the flocking technique; where many birds huddle together for safety. It helps to share body heat. But I wonder if they jostle through the night for interior sleeping positions that are warmer, as penguins do in southern polar climes.

I guess that most of my bird-watching times will remain during daylight hours. Even if I could find a way to observe them at night (get me a pair of infrared binoculars?), it'd be rather boring—sort of like the proverbial exciting sport of watching grass grow.

Nighttime Niches--Part 1

I love to watch birds. Furthermore, I feel that feeding them and providing good habitat helps them thrive and reproduce—along with providing me with many watching opportunities. We've planted a wide variety of shrubs and flowers that offer them nesting sites, as well as attract the kinds of bugs they love to eat. It is a thrill to watch mom and dad feed and encourage their newly-fledged kids to fly.

As dusk comes on each night, the last song is heard, the last visit to the feeder is made; then our songbirds fly off to sleep the night away. Quiet settles in, until the various nocturnal birds—owls and whippoorwills—take up night duty and fill the woods with their calls.

I know that diurnal birds find a place to sleep—a place that needs to be as safe from predators as possible. But where? I've never seen a cardinal or a chickadee asleep at night. I don't go around with a flashlight trying to spot them snoozing, but I've often wondered where they go to doze. When parents are brooding chicks, I'm sure they constantly cover their babies to protect them, so at least one parent passes the night on the nest; but how about the rest of the year, when babies are not a concern?

Once the nesting season is over, birds will usually abandon the nest, since it is no longer needed, but it also is coated with droppings and scattered feathers, that attract predators and parasites; so it makes sense to stay away from it. So again, I wonder, where do they camp out at night?

A little research gave me some general answers. I have yet to actually spot one of our birds sleeping the night away, safe in its niche; but now I know where some of them might be found. Songbirds find various kinds of perches for sleep. Their main objective is to avoid nighttime predators—owls, raccoons, and other nocturnal carnivores—and to preserve body heat; so they survive to sing and find bugs (or my sunflower seeds) the next day. Some will seek various kinds of cavities or nooks where a large predator will not be able to get at them. Some may sleep in a location where an approaching predator must make noise or create disturbing vibrations that alert them of danger. (Say, on a flimsy branch that supports them securely, but a perch that a larger critter will shake.) They may also cluster in large flocks—giving them safety in numbers, while a few sentries on the edges stay awake through the night.

More on bird snoozing next time...

Astute Avian Eyes

Birds' eyes are their dominant sense organ. They can hear quite well and some birds even smell well, but their sense of vision triumphs. In fact, their eyes are so large for the size of their heads that there's no room left for muscles to rotate them. They must cock their heads from side to side, in order to cover a decent field of view.

So visual acuity is definitely a bird's strong point. They can see two to three times more sharply than humans. The color and detail receptors in a bird's eye—called cones—are two to three times greater in number than for us. (That's something like 15 million cones, in a much smaller eye!) Their visual acuity leaves us far behind.

I recently watched a titmouse at the bird feeder—extracting and then rejecting at least 10-15 sunflower seeds, before becoming satisfied enough to fly off with a choice seed and commence to grasp it in its feet and bang away with its beak, to get at the sweet nut within. Most titmice (as well as their close cousins the chickadees) will fly to the feeder, quickly grab the first seed they can, and fly away to work at it. Why was this particular titmouse being so finicky—tossing away rejected seeds, until it found just the right one?

The surface of the feeder tray is strewn with hundreds of sunflower seeds and empty hulls—the latter being far dominant. When I look at the tray (to see if it's time to replenish seeds) I tend to think that there are plenty of them available, so I sometimes delay restocking the container. If I take a closer look, however (by taking the time to put my glasses on), I can usually see that most of them are empty husks. I have to look closely to determine this, yet I watch one of these birds fly to the platform, instantaneously grab a seed from all the empty hulls, and fly away to get at its interior morsel. Such keen eyesight! Their astute sense of vision is also demonstrated when I watch one of them dart to a tree trunk and pluck a tiny, juicy bug from a tiny crack.

Back to the picky titmouse who rejected a dozen or more seeds, before finally flying off with one: I'm assuming that it was looking for a fat seed, that promised a particularly large interior nut. If so, it was demonstrating an enhanced ability over its buddies, to be choosy and find that fat seed.

Why is only this one bird being so choosy? I've seen him do this trick before. While all the other titmice flit down and quickly grab a seed, this guy takes his time. Has he learned something that the others have not? Is his eyesight simply less astute? Another fascinating observation may be leading me towards one more step into the lives of these local birds.

Testy Tim Titmouse

I sit in my outdoor tub, watching birds come to the feeder. When I'm in a meditative mood, beholding birds is one of the more absorbing activities that I enjoy. There is always an interesting example of bird behavior to observe—and sometimes a taste is offered that appears to be just enough different from the norm that it captures my imagination and causes my speculative mental juices to flow.

Tonight I'm witnessing a group of half a dozen tufted titmice visiting the feeder—swooping down more or less together, grabbing sunflower seeds and then flying off more or less together into the evening air. In a few minutes they return and resume feeding. They pay each other little attention, except for the fact that they hang with one another in this loosely-defined flock. It's safer for them, as many eyes do better at spotting threats than do just two.

Then there's the oddball in this small flock, whom I will call Testy Tim. He seems more interested in his fellow group members, than the seeds. He suddenly attacks another titmouse—excreting a squeaky, threatening shout that drives the other bird off. At random moments Tim aggressively charges another compatriot, chasing it away.

What is going on here? Tim's behavior, it seems to me, is untimely. Such belligerent conduct in early spring—when territory and breeding pairs are being established—is normal. But not this time of summer. Mates have been selected long ago and most offspring bred; now it's time to mellow out in the summer's heat. But not Testy Tim.

What's got Tim's goat? Why is he acting so pugnacious? Did he just get jilted by his lady? Is this a temporary affliction? Did something just happen that's got his testosterone flowing? Did he just pick a fight with a bird who was superior to him on the pecking order, and he won—with his success now surging through his veins like piss and vinegar? Or might he be a recent fledgling—and like an overconfident teenager, is engaging in foolish behavior, inviting an older, more worldly bird to put him in his place?

Tim is asking for his comeuppance, I'm thinking. He's the single belligerent bird in this harmonious group; the others may decide to gang up retaliate at any moment. They seem uninterested in facing Tim down, however. Maybe it's just too much of an effort in the hot evening sun, to deal with his attacks? Maybe Tim will soon get it out of his system and calm down?

The titmice once again fly off in their group—with Testy Tom trailing behind. Things quiet down. In a few moments I hear a titmouse ferociously scolding. Could it be an elder who is chewing out Tim—advising him to chill out? Has Tim's juvenile behavior earned him a well-deserved dressing down?

I don't see any more titmice, as dusk settles in and quiet prevails. Did Tim finally calm down? Did the others just head for bed, hoping that tomorrow will be a more agreeable day? I'm left alone with my musings, to create my stories.

Backyard Ethology

For three decades now I have observed the local wildlife—in the woods, at the bird feeder, in the garden, and at any other nearby wilderness spot where nature's critters cavort. I have come to know and understand who they are and what they're doing, to a far greater degree than when I first moved to this rural retreat. I have learned much, but also understand that I've only begun to scratch the surface of fully appreciating my wildlife community.

There are two principle ways by which I've studied the local fauna: reading what scholars have written and through simple observation. I can gain much knowledge through surfing on the internet, and I have acquired a good-sized library of books on wildlife. They've helped me identify and learn a lot.

When I observe wildlife directly, I practice a form of ethology: the science of animal behavior—the whys and wherefores of their conduct and actions. An intimate understanding of their behavior comes from extended periods of observation—simply watching, while constantly questioning what is going on. It is crucial to keep an open mind, because so much can be missed if you decide too soon that you know what their actions are about, and thus close your mind to going any deeper. We humans have a propensity to anthropomorphize: attributing human behavior and characteristics to the animals. Even numerous scientists have made this mistake.

One of my champion ethologists is Jane Goodall, who spent decades patiently observing the behavior of chimpanzees in Africa. In her early years many esteemed zoologists rejected her conclusions about chimps' behaviors, but her keen observations gradually earned her an honored reputation and changed our comprehension of chimp culture.

As for what's going on with my local critters, I can get only so much from a book or Wikipedia. When I observe the particular behavior of a particular bird, it may be a general behavior of that species that I'm seeing, but it may also simply be how that individual has come to behave in my backyard. It is a unique being. The thing it is doing is unique. No other bird in the world is doing precisely what it is doing.

So I watch... and watch. What's going on? Can I be certain of what I perceive? Is it typical of this species I'm observing? Have I seen this particular bird do this before? What could be the reason for this behavior? The bird can't explain itself to me, so the keener my observation, the deeper I delve into its world. With understanding comes appreciation, awe, reverence... even love. The natural world possesses beauty beyond explanation. Give me three more lifetimes of sharp-eyed study and I'd still find myself a beginner.

Pete Dunneans

            Pete Dunne is an author who has written prolifically on birds; both as books and as columns in various birding periodicals. What I find special about Dunne is his droll sense of humor, which makes his writing both fun and informative. He has a way of capturing the essence of a species of bird in a manner that is both charming and memorable. His witty caricatures of a bird have a way of sticking in my mind, so that whenever I subsequently see or hear it, I cannot help but recall one of Dunne’s clever one-liners. It helps me remember some facts about the bird, but it sometimes also creates an image in my head that I can’t shake.

            For instance, Dunne has a delightful description of the mourning dove: as a “teardrop with a tail,” or a “pear on a stick.” And that’s exactly how they look! But he also describes them as having a head that is “small—almost ridiculously so.” As a result, I cannot look at a dove without thinking that it’s tiny head causes it to be a singularly stupid bird.

            Then there is his caricature of the hairy woodpecker as a “big-billed street brawler of a woodpecker, that would have no trouble peering over a beer mug.” See if that doesn’t stick in your head!

            Dunne describes the American robin as a bird with a haughty demeanor, whose flight appears as though it is “struggling somewhat from either towing a load…or perhaps running out of gas (and the engine is sputtering on fumes).” Or the American crow, which has a shaggy, “paunchy look” and that walks “with a strut or a sailor’s gait.” The crow’s raucous demeanor causes it to be “obsessed with driving away hawks and letting the world know the location of every roosting great horned owl.”

            Back to some amusing appearances: the blue jay is a “curiously-shaped bird that looks like it was assembled from leftover parts.” The Whippoorwill “looks like something took a bite out of it.” The Eastern bluebird in silhouette “looks like Winston Churchill leaning on a cane. Really!”

            Or some descriptions of odd behaviors: a flock of American goldfinches swirl around, the birds “shifting locations constantly, so that it seems more an exercise in quantum mechanics than a flock.” Or the blue jay again, who loves “mobbing actions, whether directed towards hawks, owls, cats, snakes, foxes, humans… and sometimes nothing at all!” I have several times been attracted by a noisy flock of jays that incessantly carry on—but whose target I’m unable to identify.

            One of my favorite birds to watch is the Carolina wren, who sings loudly and merrily, and perkily hops everywhere. Dunne describes this wren as a “portly, potbellied, humpbacked, medium-sized wren that moves in jerky hops from the overturned flowerpot to the creeping ivy to the top of the fence to the trunk of a tree to the suet feeder to the inside of the shed with the door ajar.” Just change the locations to objects in our yard and that’s exactly what the wren does! In fact, we have discovered Carolina wren nests in three different outbuildings—even one whose door was not left ajar, but the bird still found a way to sneak in!

Finally, a few more appearances that I cannot shake from my mind, whenever I spot one of these birds: the barred owl “looks like it’s wearing a shabby, stain-streaked coat with a closed fur collar.” Or the screech owl whose “expression ranges from oriental inscrutable (when sleepy and eyes are drawn down to slits) to really ticked off (such as when someone imitates its call).” Or the turkey vulture, whose profile gives “the bird a dejected brooding look. It seems clumsy, almost oafish, on the ground.”

            I have much fun reading Dunne and always look forward to one of his droll descriptions. But as I wrote earlier, he has at times imprinted his witticisms in my mind. I can’t help but imagine a cane-leaning Winston Churchill when I spot a blue bird or think about what leftover parts that blue jay was assembled from.

 

Immature Avian Antics

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.