Feeder Foes

I wrote last time about a sharp-shinned hawk attack on cute little chickadees at the bird feeder. The battle for life often finds one kind of critter killing another for food. Songbirds—when they’re not gorging themselves on the sunflower seeds that I put out—will eat small spiders and other bugs. The insects’ death ensures the life of the bird. In turn, a hawk catches and kills a small bird (or rodent), which ensures the life of the raptor. We humans may rue the death of an adorable songbird, but care far less about the death of a yucky bug.

The chickadee needs lots of fuel in the winter (as does the hawk). Half of all the calories that the little bird eats goes solely into shivering, which generates heat in its tiny body (about a third of an ounce, or the equivalent of two nickels).

Nature has given the songbird an exquisite sense of sight. We humans need binoculars to begin to rival their ability to spot tiny crevices in tree bark, where a bug may be hiding. They can also see into the ultraviolet range—allowing them to spot numerous food items (bugs) that may be tinged with a little UV coloring. These enhanced abilities help keep them alive through a bitter winter. Even so, many of them starve. (That’s why I feel that my bird feeder helps—by offering sunflower seeds loaded with fat.)  

The songbird foe, the sharp-shinned hawk, also has his imposing skills. His eyesight is even better, though not as keen as his larger family members—such as eagles. The “sharpie” is the smallest hawk—about the size of a blue jay. Many people who feed birds hate this small hawk, because it will lurk in a tree or bush—watching “like a hawk”—and suddenly burst out to snatch a cute songbird. Mother Nature’s wisdom, however, exceeds ours. The sharpie is actually useful in culling less fit birds (thus keeping the remaining flock healthier), as well as training them to be alert and wary. Wolves serve a similar function for deer, antelope, and other browsers.

Like other fierce-looking members of the hawk and eagle family, the sharp-shinned hawk has a hooked beak, strong feet, and curved talons, for seizing and killing prey. Its crown and back are a dark, blue-gray color, while its undersides are a beautiful white-and-rufous barred pattern. Its wings are short and wide and its tail is long—giving it the ability to make quick turns in its dash after prey. It is a migrating bird that breeds up in Canada and winters around here and farther south.

I feel constantly torn between the success and well-being of these feeder foes; but the success of one comes at the sacrifice of the other. I can’t have it both ways, nor does it make sense for me to favor one over the other. Nature doesn’t. It’s a balance. Maybe I can come to accept nature’s way, without casting my lot with either?

Hawk Attack

For years I have fed songbirds at the feeder. It seems like the right thing to do and it’s fun to watch the antics of the little guys, as they cluster around the feeder holes, vying for access to its cornucopia. I know I’m offering them vital nutrients in these cold months, but I’ve also been concerned about predators attacking them and how I may be setting up the little guys.

A bunch of tasty morsels crowding around the feeder must create a tremendous attraction for hawks. I have suspected that sharp-shinned hawks might be lurking in the vicinity. I’ve read that they are a major predator around feeders, but had never spotted one…until a few days ago.

There have been numerous occasions when I’d notice that all the songbirds near the feeder had instantly transformed themselves from jerky little acrobats who were constantly on the move into feathery statues. It was as if some magic hand had waved and suddenly turned them into taxidermy figures. For several minutes the only move they’d dare make was an occasional blink of an eye. My guess is that a hawk had entered the arena and they knew that their survival lay in stillness. I never was able to spot a hawk, however, and soon the little guys would resume their furious activity.

It can be crucial to the survival of a tiny songbird to ingest a sufficient amount of food energy, especially on cold days. Their tiny bodies rapidly radiate heat, so they must eat an enormous amount to stay alive. The expression to “eat like a bird” is very misleading. They gorge themselves. A tiny chickadee requires some 16 calories a day. Now, that might not sound like much, but scale that bird up to a 150 pound human, and you get the equivalent of over 6,000 calories! Try eating that much every day and still try to fly—let alone waddle across the room!

In order to gobble up that many calories, a little songbird in the wild must be scouting for food nearly every waking hour. It needs to find several hundred bugs a day to survive. On a cold January day, that’s an overwhelming task. If, instead, the bird has access to a feeder that is stocked with black oil sunflower seeds, just a few dozen seeds a day provides all the nutrients it needs. It’s in bird heaven!

So I’m helping the little songbirds survive the harsh winter. But am I also setting them up for a hawk’s meal? Maybe so. As yet I haven’t actually seen a hawk, nor any tell-tale pile of feathers on the ground—signaling the remains of its birdie feast. I also know that many songbirds gathered together provide each other a degree of safety, since many eyes on the lookout can spot a foe quicker than one pair.

A few days ago I was finally witness to a spectacular hawk attack. I happened to be standing still near the feeder, when there was a sudden flurry of activity in the trumpet vine next to the feeder. I looked over to see a sharp-shinned hawk dive repeatedly at two chickadees who were receding as fast as they could into the protection of the vine’s branches. The much larger hawk could not get in to grab them, though he tried several times in the split second I watched the attack. It then spotted me and streaked off to a nearby tree, where it landed on a limb and balefully eyed me, as if resenting my interference.

I inched slowly toward the hawk, hoping to get a better look. What a beautiful bird! It turned its back on me, unceremoniously pooped, and flew off into the forest—leaving me trembling in wonder. Wow! I was torn between a sense of relief that he failed in his attack (my birdies were safe for now) and knowing that this beautiful raptor needed to eat too.

I regretted not having a camera at the ready, but so many of nature’s gifts that I receive pass too quickly for a photo. I may not have captured a picture of this delightful bird, but the vision is surely permanently seared into my memory. I was graced.

Corvid Mobsters—Part 2

I have wondered why it is that hawks allow themselves to be shoved around by a bunch of smaller birds (or the same for a crow being mobbed by songbirds). Sure, it may be outnumbered, but in short order a hawk could easily dispatch an overly aggressive and foolish crow—sending the others fleeing through the trees. I’ve watched a hawk try to ignore the mobbing flock, but subsequently choose to flee, with the crows diving and swooping from behind. The hawk doesn’t seem to be inclined to retaliate. Why not?

A little research told me that even though a hawk could easily kill a crow, the act may require an expenditure of too much energy. Food is not always plentiful for flying carnivores. Crows are agile aerial acrobats, and a hawk would likely have to work hard to catch one. It maybe just ain’t worth the effort, so it vacates the scene. Besides, a hawk is not all that territorial. If it just happens to be sallying through, it has no investment in the area, so it allows itself to be driven off. If the hawk has its own babies to protect, however, it’s a very different story. In this case the crows know it and don’t push their luck. Just a little mobbing noise to warrant their awesome reputation and then move on to easier targets.

This crew of crows that I heard the other evening kept up their raucous chorus for about a half hour, as the scene of the action floated through the woods. It suggested to me that they had themselves a real target and were not just playing or bluffing. In time, they calmed down, and quiet once again reigned in the woods. Then, after a while, I could hear one lone hawk plaintively calling out from the direction of where the mobbing had ended. It sounded weak or defeated. I tried to guess whether it was crying out of pain, or a dented ego, or just sassing back. It was not a happy or triumphant call. I think that crows prevailed on that one.

Corvid Mobsters--Part 1

I recently listened to a horde of crows noisily and persistently squawking, cawing, and bellowing off in the woods. I could not see them to know who or what they were hassling, but it seemed to be a case of what is called “mobbing”: when a group of birds surrounds and attacks a larger predator or threat. I’ve watched a group of songbirds mob a crow that posed a threat to their babies. I’ve watched a band of crows mob a hawk, although I couldn’t figure out quite why the hawk was being targeted.

Maybe that’s what I was hearing the other day: crows mobbing a hawk? (They also mob owls and even raccoons, foxes, and house cats.) After nearly half an hour, the ruckus moved several hundred feet down the hill, toward the creek. This suggested to me that the crows were mobbing a bird that flew that way, rather than a mammal, since they remained in the trees and moved rather quickly. But what was really going on? I don’t think the crows were defending their babies—it’s late enough in the season that all youngsters would be fledged and pretty much on their own by now. Could the youngsters be playing some kind of game among themselves?

Crows tend to hang together in colonies, so when a threat is spied, they can depend on a group to quickly form, to harass and drive off the menace. They have several possible motivations for mobbing a larger bird: They may be defending their nests of eggs or nestlings. They may be protecting their food supply—crows are also predators of songbirds and other small critters. They may be teaching youngsters how to mob. Earlier in the season they may be showing off to potential mates. (“Hey, sweetie, see how brave I am? Want to hook up with me?”) Or maybe they’re just playing. Sometimes crows—especially young ones—will play a game of hide and seek, wherein the “it” crow tries to hide and the others fly about and shout at the hider, once he’s been spotted.

When crows mob, they are either trying to drive away a predator or simply alerting all birds in the vicinity that a pariah has entered the neighborhood. A hawk or owl may simply be passing through and resting on a branch for a few minutes—unaware that it has violated corvid territory. The crows’ frenzy is an ambivalent mixture of fear and aggression—fear for their individual safety and a boldness engendered by the need to appear formidable. If you watch crows mobbing a larger bird, you can see a fascinating dance, wherein each one tries to do it from a safe distance, while seeming to be fierce and intimidating. Like teenage urban boys bluffing, they sound as if they’re calling out, “Hold me back, boys, before I pound his ass into the pavement!”

The objective of mobbing may be to engage the intruder in multiple dive bombings and buzzings, to prevent the larger bird from being able to focus on one target. Keeping him distracted, they swarm around and cause the hawk to leave, just to get a little peace for itself. Or the crows may be attempting to teach a young hawk or owl to give crows a wide berth in the future: If they get one of their band to act as a decoy—causing the hawk to focus forward, as the others attack from behind—the young hawk might conclude that a crow is one of those magical critters that will fly in your face, as it simultaneously pecks at your butt. If that impressionable young hawk spreads the news by telling its buddies what happened, the crows will have achieved a great coup. The crows may even top off the humiliation by defecating on the hawk.

More on mobbing next time…

Birdfeeder Brigands—Part 2

The squirrel seems to have given up trying to climb aboard the feeder—although I saw him a couple of days later, mulling around on the ground, picking up seeds the birds had dropped. That’s OK, as long as he doesn’t hog the feeder and push out the birds. Have I won the squirrel arms race? I’m not at all sanguine about my triumph enduring. I wonder if he’s crouching back in the trees, pondering his next assault. I’ll stay vigilant.

The second round of feeder attacks continued, in yet another new challenge. A couple of mornings ago, as I stepped out the door, I heard a few fussing birds off to my left. I turned too see what appeared to be a hawk coming from the direction of the birds. It flashed by less than ten feet from me, and sailed on down the drive. I had apparently startled him, as he was diving towards the songbirds, and he hastily vacated the scene of his hoped-for meal.

We’ve never seen a hawk within several hundred feet of the house. Uh-oh! A new and different kind of test has arrived: a second raider of birdfeeders—not just stealing food, but lives. A hawk can look upon a feeder as a wonderful magnet to attract their meals. And I’ve helped him by recently placing the feeder out in the open, where he can take aim and attack!

I headed for one of my bird books. I needed to know more. The bird had flown by so fast that I was unable to tell which species it might be—or even to be positive it was a hawk. The book showed me that it indeed was a sharp-shinned hawk (by its coloring and size). It is a small hawk: about half the size of our other raptors. The book tells me that sharp-shinned hawks like to “hunt around houses and birdfeeders.” They hunt from a concealed perch, capturing “small birds by surprise in lightning-quick strikes.” My fears were confirmed!

So is the hawk my and the birds’ next ordeal? Will he return and begin picking off our cute songbirds? As I kept a close eye on the feeder after he left, I noticed that the birds had abandoned it for a half hour or so, but then slowly began to return.

I don’t like interfering with Mother Nature’s predator-prey duals—especially by projecting my emotions onto the situation. All creatures have to eat, and some eat each other. That’s how it goes. It’s one thing to happen upon a predator attacking its prey in the woods, where they are playing out their natural roles, and not get caught up in inappropriate feelings of sympathy. It’s quite another to have introduced a feeding station into the environment—one that attracts both cute little critters and their hungry foes. I’ve altered the natural dynamics by introducing an artificial source of food. So what is my responsibility when my actions lead to the harm of innocent creatures? It’s very complicated.

I guess I’d best remain vigilant—as I plan to be with the squirrelly invader—and see if the hawk returns. If I’m lucky, it won’t, and I won’t have to decide what to do next. On the other hand, it’s possible that it’s made a wonderful discovery, and will inevitably return. Or did I maybe scare it enough that it will seek meals in other places? How will I respond if it returns and kills one of those adorable chickadees? A hawk has to eat to survive, and cute little critters like songbirds are one of its crucial food items. Like a hawk, I will keep a sharp eye on the situation and see what comes and what it teaches me.