Sunday, April 18, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
From Flocking to Fighting
One of the joys of spring is watching and listening for the return of migrating birds. Those first calls of the phoebe, the robin, the wood thrush, or the indigo bunting are sure to bring wide smiles to our faces and an excited, “Did you hear that!?” All’s right with our little vernal world when we know that our winged travelers have come back for the season.
But there’s another fascinating spring event that I like to observe: the year-round resident birds, as they morph from close-knit feeding buddies in a flock, to sparring rivals, who enter into courting rituals.
Throughout the winter we have chickadees, titmice, and goldfinches flocking at the feeder—maybe a dozen or more of each species. To my untrained eye years ago, they all seemed to be close-knit friends, but that was a bit of anthropomorphizing on my part. Birds rarely are friendly with one another—tolerant is a better word for it (at best). In fact, they most always aggressively establish a pecking order that determines who dominates. At the feeder, sweet little chickadees are the most submissive and intimidated. Titmice pick on them, while they in turn are subservient to finches and nuthatches. Small woodpeckers come next, topped off by the cardinals.
But there’s also a harder-to-distinguish pecking order that gets established within each species. It’s more difficult to follow, because I’m as yet unable to tell one titmouse from another. Thus I can detect a hierarchy process going on, but do not know which bird is boss, or if he stays boss for long.
Despite the pecking order dynamics, however, during the winter the birds flock together in a decently non-combative manner around the feeder. Come spring, though, inner mating urges begin to control their behavior. It’s combat time. Winter’s proximity gives way to spring’s territorial jousting. The birds begin to call incessantly, in order to establish their mating and breeding turf. It’s fun to watch their antics, as they begin to challenge each other for the nicest patch of ground. They dive, feint, chase, squabble, show off, sing vociferously, and just as quickly stop and perch next to one another, as if a truce was suddenly called.
I’ve read that the dominant male of each species (the one in command at the winter feeder) gets the first pick of breeding territory. Around here that means the clearing, as it’ll have the highest population of insects during the summer. Maybe someday I’ll learn how to trap and band birds, so I can identify individuals. Then I can verify if Dominant Tom Titmouse at the feeder is the same guy whose mate now reigns in the nesting box in the back yard, or if Submissive Sam managed to outwit Tom or sing better than he did, and get the prime location.
But there’s another fascinating spring event that I like to observe: the year-round resident birds, as they morph from close-knit feeding buddies in a flock, to sparring rivals, who enter into courting rituals.
Throughout the winter we have chickadees, titmice, and goldfinches flocking at the feeder—maybe a dozen or more of each species. To my untrained eye years ago, they all seemed to be close-knit friends, but that was a bit of anthropomorphizing on my part. Birds rarely are friendly with one another—tolerant is a better word for it (at best). In fact, they most always aggressively establish a pecking order that determines who dominates. At the feeder, sweet little chickadees are the most submissive and intimidated. Titmice pick on them, while they in turn are subservient to finches and nuthatches. Small woodpeckers come next, topped off by the cardinals.
But there’s also a harder-to-distinguish pecking order that gets established within each species. It’s more difficult to follow, because I’m as yet unable to tell one titmouse from another. Thus I can detect a hierarchy process going on, but do not know which bird is boss, or if he stays boss for long.
Despite the pecking order dynamics, however, during the winter the birds flock together in a decently non-combative manner around the feeder. Come spring, though, inner mating urges begin to control their behavior. It’s combat time. Winter’s proximity gives way to spring’s territorial jousting. The birds begin to call incessantly, in order to establish their mating and breeding turf. It’s fun to watch their antics, as they begin to challenge each other for the nicest patch of ground. They dive, feint, chase, squabble, show off, sing vociferously, and just as quickly stop and perch next to one another, as if a truce was suddenly called.
I’ve read that the dominant male of each species (the one in command at the winter feeder) gets the first pick of breeding territory. Around here that means the clearing, as it’ll have the highest population of insects during the summer. Maybe someday I’ll learn how to trap and band birds, so I can identify individuals. Then I can verify if Dominant Tom Titmouse at the feeder is the same guy whose mate now reigns in the nesting box in the back yard, or if Submissive Sam managed to outwit Tom or sing better than he did, and get the prime location.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Spring Overshoot
Every second or third spring we get a serious case of temperature overshoot. Week after frigid week creeps by in February and March, when we crave warm weather—much as kids impatiently wait for Santa to drop by with his load of goodies. Then in late March or early April, those warmer days finally arrive and we revel in their luxury. But even before we get a chance to enjoy the pleasantness, the temperature slides on up past cordial to somewhere near tropical. From chilly 50s to pleasant 70s, then on into the nasty 90s.
It’s not fair! We’ve far too quickly morphed from shivering to sweltering. A couple of brief days of delight get sandwiched between two disagreeable extremes. Besides it being unfair, the body can’t adjust that quickly. Come July, I can endure 94 degrees pretty decently. But the 94 we had today… in early April?? Whoa!
But the problem with spring’s overshoot goes far beyond our physical uncomfortableness. It even goes beyond the sadness of watching flowers wilt and die well before their time. (In cooler weather, they’d last a couple of weeks, not a measly two days.) The hardest part is watching all the fruit trees pop into bloom one afternoon—knowing that a night of killing frost is surely coming. We can pretty well count on a 26-degree night in the next few days, when all those vulnerable blossoms will get zapped by Jack Frost, die, and turn a ghastly brown the next day. It seems so unnecessary. Why must the weather make these wild swings? Why does it so sneakily lure the buds open, only to kill them the next day?
Mother Nature can seem cruel, but it’s mostly our perception that reads motives into natural events. A gorgeous sunset does not intend to please us. A drought is not our punishment. An earthquake has no malevolence in it. It just is. Our suffering is caused more by doing things like building houses in a flood plain or planting a delicate cherry tree that is susceptible to frost.
Oh well, so we lose a cherry or peach or pear crop every two or three years. But those other years… oh, how sweet their fruit is! Besides, we planted a backup years ago: strawberries. They’re smart enough to blossom later, when all the frosts have passed.
It’s not fair! We’ve far too quickly morphed from shivering to sweltering. A couple of brief days of delight get sandwiched between two disagreeable extremes. Besides it being unfair, the body can’t adjust that quickly. Come July, I can endure 94 degrees pretty decently. But the 94 we had today… in early April?? Whoa!
But the problem with spring’s overshoot goes far beyond our physical uncomfortableness. It even goes beyond the sadness of watching flowers wilt and die well before their time. (In cooler weather, they’d last a couple of weeks, not a measly two days.) The hardest part is watching all the fruit trees pop into bloom one afternoon—knowing that a night of killing frost is surely coming. We can pretty well count on a 26-degree night in the next few days, when all those vulnerable blossoms will get zapped by Jack Frost, die, and turn a ghastly brown the next day. It seems so unnecessary. Why must the weather make these wild swings? Why does it so sneakily lure the buds open, only to kill them the next day?
Mother Nature can seem cruel, but it’s mostly our perception that reads motives into natural events. A gorgeous sunset does not intend to please us. A drought is not our punishment. An earthquake has no malevolence in it. It just is. Our suffering is caused more by doing things like building houses in a flood plain or planting a delicate cherry tree that is susceptible to frost.
Oh well, so we lose a cherry or peach or pear crop every two or three years. But those other years… oh, how sweet their fruit is! Besides, we planted a backup years ago: strawberries. They’re smart enough to blossom later, when all the frosts have passed.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The Firsts
It is early spring—such a glorious time. Anyone who is in close touch with the natural world (in temperate climates, at least) gets excited as spring comes in. The thrill emanates from deep within our beings. Entrenched in our DNA are countless times that our ancestors successfully negotiated nasty winters, to celebrate the return of life. Hallelujah! Once again we’ve survived the trials of winter and now we greet the New Year.
Many naturalists have expressed the sentiment that our calendar ought to commence with spring. That’s Mother Nature’s inauguration of the year—not that dark, bleak time surrounding the winter solstice that we choose.
What makes spring so exciting, I think, is the string of “firsts” one encounters. The first opening bud on a tree. The first tiny blossom hunkering down close to the ground. The first phoebe call. The first T-shirt warm day. The first tentatively fluttering butterfly. And what adds to the level of excitement is the long wait one endures during those last trying days of winter—day after day of cheerlessness, as you press your metaphorical nose to the window, surveying the monochrome world, wondering if color and life might (please!) come today.
And what adds to our excitement is the knowledge of all the future firsts that these heralds of the New Year signal. We know that soon we’ll taste that first strawberry, pick the first lettuce, and savor that first tender sprig of asparagus. The garden will morph from graveyard to nursery in a few short weeks.
Spring’s pace is difficult to keep up with. One’s emotions become overwhelmed, as all the firsts are encountered so swiftly. I try to allow the mind’s adrenalin to flow freely, however, knowing that this spring fever will pass equally quickly. I don’t want to stand still a minute, lest I miss so much!
Soon the firsts will be behind us. In some cases we will become accustomed to the routine; even becoming slightly jaded by all the seconds, thirds, fourths, and so on. That may be so, but when the abundance comes, I will then be in awe of the fecundity of a meadow of daffodils or a tree full of apples. Bring that abundance on! I will look forward to reveling in the cornucopia of August.
Many naturalists have expressed the sentiment that our calendar ought to commence with spring. That’s Mother Nature’s inauguration of the year—not that dark, bleak time surrounding the winter solstice that we choose.
What makes spring so exciting, I think, is the string of “firsts” one encounters. The first opening bud on a tree. The first tiny blossom hunkering down close to the ground. The first phoebe call. The first T-shirt warm day. The first tentatively fluttering butterfly. And what adds to the level of excitement is the long wait one endures during those last trying days of winter—day after day of cheerlessness, as you press your metaphorical nose to the window, surveying the monochrome world, wondering if color and life might (please!) come today.
And what adds to our excitement is the knowledge of all the future firsts that these heralds of the New Year signal. We know that soon we’ll taste that first strawberry, pick the first lettuce, and savor that first tender sprig of asparagus. The garden will morph from graveyard to nursery in a few short weeks.
Spring’s pace is difficult to keep up with. One’s emotions become overwhelmed, as all the firsts are encountered so swiftly. I try to allow the mind’s adrenalin to flow freely, however, knowing that this spring fever will pass equally quickly. I don’t want to stand still a minute, lest I miss so much!
Soon the firsts will be behind us. In some cases we will become accustomed to the routine; even becoming slightly jaded by all the seconds, thirds, fourths, and so on. That may be so, but when the abundance comes, I will then be in awe of the fecundity of a meadow of daffodils or a tree full of apples. Bring that abundance on! I will look forward to reveling in the cornucopia of August.
Friday, April 2, 2010
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