Watching the familiar mix of birds at the feeder, I can become captivated by their routines. After a period of time, the pecking order is clearly established, so the avian interaction dynamics settle into a predictable pattern. Certain species—such as the cardinals—come at the same time each day, so I begin to anticipate their arrival. The smaller birds—chickadees, titmice, and finches—appear at random times of day, but their behaviors are usually quite repeatable, as to which ones dominate and hence how they will behave.
So I also fall into a pattern—looking forward to certain expected activities and enjoying the show. As to feeder hierarchy, in general, the larger the bird, the more likely it’ll rule. The smaller birds will quickly retreat, perching on a nearby branch, and wait until the bigger guy is done. I don’t often understand what all is going on, but as I become familiar with their routine, I increasingly pick up on subtle details. It calls for the classic birder’s technique: watch, watch, watch.
But now and then a newcomer enters the picture and the dynamics change—especially if the visitor is large. Although we have many blue jays in the area, they have yet to come to the feeder. I guess we’re fortunate, since jays are the bane of many folks who feed birds; they can hog the offerings.
I recently observed a blue jay fly to a branch just above the feeder. The other birds fluttering about for their meal must have attracted him; he was probably investigating what all the fun was about. Upon his arrival the behavior of all the small birds abruptly changed. They had been busily flying back and forth, grabbing a seed, and swooping a short distance away to chop at the nut inside. They knew that the usual bigger birds would pretty much ignore them, so they could freely continue their activity. But how about this imposing stranger? All the little eyes became locked upon the jay. They gave him plenty of space—even putting the feeder between themselves and that big blue guy, when they could.
The jay would flit to another branch—seemingly trying to figure out the action. Each time he moved, the smaller birds moved, keping their distance, giving him a wide berth. The red-bellied woodpecker, however, being about the same size as the jay, ignored the newcomer and blithely continued his meal. In time the jay flew off and the little birds immediately resumed their normal feeding habits.
It didn’t seem to me that the smaller birds showed any real fear of the jay—just respect. It’s as if they knew they wouldn’t be hurt, if they politely stayed out of the way. The jay just needed to be heeded, not to be feared. To my mind that’s one of the admirable qualities of animals: they don’t unnecessarily hurt each other, as humans often do. A human bully will sometimes harm another person or animal out of spite, just because he can. An animal harms only for a good reason.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Three Mentors
We often find that our passions were once stimulated by a teacher, whose message touched a resonant chord in us—either because it came along at just the right time or that it awakened a latent inquisitiveness in us. Maybe either the career we chose or the interests that we eagerly pursue were suggested by this person. Maybe we found ourselves wandering about with little direction and the path became clear once we met the teacher.
Three literary naturalist writers have become my mentors in recent years—individuals who wrote about the natural world and who have inspired me. They’ve given me ideas and a direction in which to point myself, as I try to respond to the example they have set for me.
John Burroughs wrote in the mid to late 1800s, Hal Borland wrote columns for the New York Times in the middle of the 20th century, and Bernd Heinrich is a biologist who writes today. All were keen observers of the natural world that surrounded them. All lived in remote regions of the woodlands of New England and all wrote in an engaging personal manner, describing their special encounters with the natural world.
All three of them stayed home—choosing to become deeply and intimately familiar with their personal neck of the woods—rather than travel and describe the wonders of far-flung locations. Although I find it fascinating to read the marvelous experiences of a vagabond like John Muir, his stories are more like travelogues than the deeper encounters told by my mentors. While Muir’s descriptions are wide and not very deep, my mentors’ explorations are deep and detailed.
These three wordsmiths were attentive watchers; they kept a “sharp lookout,” in Burroughs’s words. They logged many hours observing the flora and fauna immediately about them—becoming increasingly familiar with their locale. They noted details and asked themselves questions and sought underlying reasons. When the unexpected happened they increased their scrutiny, realizing that a deeper understanding was waiting them, if they could figure out the anomaly.
These men were humble before nature. They knew they were surrounded by the sacred and they treated their world reverentially. They became so absorbed and awed by nature that they literally became a part of it. Animals sensed their respect and sensibility, allowing them access to their world and often treating them as members of their community.
Inspired by my literary mentors, I try to practice the disciplines they have taught me. They’ve shown me the wisdom of reading prodigiously—soaking up the knowledge that others have gained and thus not waste time rediscovering simple truths. But they’ve especially taught me to keep a sharp lookout, so that I begin to pick up on the details of the fascinating lives of the many critters around me. Give me three lifetimes and I’d make some real headway.
Three literary naturalist writers have become my mentors in recent years—individuals who wrote about the natural world and who have inspired me. They’ve given me ideas and a direction in which to point myself, as I try to respond to the example they have set for me.
John Burroughs wrote in the mid to late 1800s, Hal Borland wrote columns for the New York Times in the middle of the 20th century, and Bernd Heinrich is a biologist who writes today. All were keen observers of the natural world that surrounded them. All lived in remote regions of the woodlands of New England and all wrote in an engaging personal manner, describing their special encounters with the natural world.
All three of them stayed home—choosing to become deeply and intimately familiar with their personal neck of the woods—rather than travel and describe the wonders of far-flung locations. Although I find it fascinating to read the marvelous experiences of a vagabond like John Muir, his stories are more like travelogues than the deeper encounters told by my mentors. While Muir’s descriptions are wide and not very deep, my mentors’ explorations are deep and detailed.
These three wordsmiths were attentive watchers; they kept a “sharp lookout,” in Burroughs’s words. They logged many hours observing the flora and fauna immediately about them—becoming increasingly familiar with their locale. They noted details and asked themselves questions and sought underlying reasons. When the unexpected happened they increased their scrutiny, realizing that a deeper understanding was waiting them, if they could figure out the anomaly.
These men were humble before nature. They knew they were surrounded by the sacred and they treated their world reverentially. They became so absorbed and awed by nature that they literally became a part of it. Animals sensed their respect and sensibility, allowing them access to their world and often treating them as members of their community.
Inspired by my literary mentors, I try to practice the disciplines they have taught me. They’ve shown me the wisdom of reading prodigiously—soaking up the knowledge that others have gained and thus not waste time rediscovering simple truths. But they’ve especially taught me to keep a sharp lookout, so that I begin to pick up on the details of the fascinating lives of the many critters around me. Give me three lifetimes and I’d make some real headway.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Mating Dances
During April I watched various sparring displays between males of the same species. It was fascinating to see them engage in singing competitions and joust with each other for territory and the right to mate. Many male songbirds are not able to mate—there is only so much turf available, and the stronger and more capable guys get their pick. The losers remain single for the season, so the competition can be fierce.
By May the mating season gets into full swing. Our birds will pair off, remain monogamous for the summer (or even longer), and raise as many as three broods. Some species—such as the cardinals—remain mated for life. Each species has a preferred nesting site and nest type; building anywhere from flimsy cups to sturdy structures—in cavities, bushes, under eaves, and even on the ground. From two to half a dozen eggs get laid, incubated in only a couple of weeks, and the nestlings get prodded to leave at 2-3 weeks of age. That next brood must get started!
I love to watch the mating behavior, as the birds pair off and begin to set up house. Early in the process it can be difficult to tell if two squabbling birds are competing males or two opposite-sex birds in the first stages of wooing. Some males will initially act quite aggressively towards a potential mate—chasing her off at first. It’s as if he’s checking out how serious she may be about him. If he shoos her away and she quickly returns, maybe she’s really attracted to him and now it’s time to woo her. He will then become increasingly attentive towards her—following her around, deferring to her choice of nesting site, and even feeding her.
I’ve watched the male cardinal tenderly feed his mate several times. The pair often comes to the feeder at dusk to get a snack, before retiring for the night. Usually they come and go individually, but not after their mating dance gets into full swing. Lately I’ve watched her fly to a tree branch above the feeder and chip repeatedly at him, as he sits at the feeder, chowing down on seeds. Eventually he will fly up to her and place his sunflower-stuffed beak into hers, gifting her tenderly with the hulled nuts. They then fly off into the night together, the light fading as in a Hollywood movie.
I’ve wondered about all this solicitous activity on the part of the males. Are they really that much in love, like a swooning human teenager? Birds are not very affectionate. I suspect a couple of other motives might be responsible. First, he may just be trying to be sure that she stays faithful, so the coming babies are really his. (Males of all species often go to great lengths to ensure their own genes are in the kids they take care of—not some stranger’s.) But he may also be buttering her up, for in most cases it’s the female who does the majority of the work in raising the kids. (Sound familiar?) She will likely choose the nest site, build the nest, incubate the eggs, and do at least half of the feeding—while the male perches nearby and sings. His conscience will be less burdened while he croons, if he previously had treated her like the queen that she is.
By May the mating season gets into full swing. Our birds will pair off, remain monogamous for the summer (or even longer), and raise as many as three broods. Some species—such as the cardinals—remain mated for life. Each species has a preferred nesting site and nest type; building anywhere from flimsy cups to sturdy structures—in cavities, bushes, under eaves, and even on the ground. From two to half a dozen eggs get laid, incubated in only a couple of weeks, and the nestlings get prodded to leave at 2-3 weeks of age. That next brood must get started!
I love to watch the mating behavior, as the birds pair off and begin to set up house. Early in the process it can be difficult to tell if two squabbling birds are competing males or two opposite-sex birds in the first stages of wooing. Some males will initially act quite aggressively towards a potential mate—chasing her off at first. It’s as if he’s checking out how serious she may be about him. If he shoos her away and she quickly returns, maybe she’s really attracted to him and now it’s time to woo her. He will then become increasingly attentive towards her—following her around, deferring to her choice of nesting site, and even feeding her.
I’ve watched the male cardinal tenderly feed his mate several times. The pair often comes to the feeder at dusk to get a snack, before retiring for the night. Usually they come and go individually, but not after their mating dance gets into full swing. Lately I’ve watched her fly to a tree branch above the feeder and chip repeatedly at him, as he sits at the feeder, chowing down on seeds. Eventually he will fly up to her and place his sunflower-stuffed beak into hers, gifting her tenderly with the hulled nuts. They then fly off into the night together, the light fading as in a Hollywood movie.
I’ve wondered about all this solicitous activity on the part of the males. Are they really that much in love, like a swooning human teenager? Birds are not very affectionate. I suspect a couple of other motives might be responsible. First, he may just be trying to be sure that she stays faithful, so the coming babies are really his. (Males of all species often go to great lengths to ensure their own genes are in the kids they take care of—not some stranger’s.) But he may also be buttering her up, for in most cases it’s the female who does the majority of the work in raising the kids. (Sound familiar?) She will likely choose the nest site, build the nest, incubate the eggs, and do at least half of the feeding—while the male perches nearby and sings. His conscience will be less burdened while he croons, if he previously had treated her like the queen that she is.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Bowing Trees
By mid May most of the deciduous trees are finally decked out with their summer’s full regalia, and when they do, they respond to winds very differently from winter’s breezes. In cold weather, stripped of their leaves, these trees emit a soft whistle and whir, when the gentle wind flows through them. They bend but slightly, as they offer minimal resistance to the breeze. Fully leaved in spring, however, they present a much bulkier profile to the wind and so must bow to the breezes. They are also noisier in spring, as each leaf gets rattled and rustled about by the gusts, adding countless voices to the chorus.
Sitting quietly in the outdoor tub at this time of year, I can often hear the wind coming for several long moments, before I see it flowing through the trees on the hillside—much like “amber waves of grain.” Strong gusts were coming through the other night and I was enjoying watching the trees bow deeply in response. I was struck by how flexible a tree trunk is, as I watched the tops of the trees swing far to one side and then spring back.
What an exquisite balance a tree’s trunk shows, between suppleness and rigidity! Over millions of years of evolution trees have learned to have just enough stiffness to withstand strong winds by bending, but not so inflexible that they snap. They balance that with just enough elasticity to bend appropriately, but not so supple that they flop over.
Not too stiff, not too soft… just the right balance. Each species of tree has worked out its appropriate equilibrium—according to its height and shape. Furthermore, each individual tree must adapt that balance to its particular location—accounting for the soil its roots have delved into and the degree of its exposure to the weather. Only the fittest thrive.
A tree has to endure challenging conditions far beyond what we feeble humans can tolerate. A venerable oak must stand its ground for several hundred years—resistant not only to gales, but to the assaults of temperature extremes, diseases, insect invasions, and droughts. When things get tough we mobile critters can run for cover, but a tree must stubbornly stand and face it all.
No wonder we look up to a tree towering above us and find ourselves filled with awe. That awesome feeling can swell within us, when we watch that mighty trunk deeply bow to a strong wind, but then sprightly spring back upright. It’s like watching a ballet.
Sitting quietly in the outdoor tub at this time of year, I can often hear the wind coming for several long moments, before I see it flowing through the trees on the hillside—much like “amber waves of grain.” Strong gusts were coming through the other night and I was enjoying watching the trees bow deeply in response. I was struck by how flexible a tree trunk is, as I watched the tops of the trees swing far to one side and then spring back.
What an exquisite balance a tree’s trunk shows, between suppleness and rigidity! Over millions of years of evolution trees have learned to have just enough stiffness to withstand strong winds by bending, but not so inflexible that they snap. They balance that with just enough elasticity to bend appropriately, but not so supple that they flop over.
Not too stiff, not too soft… just the right balance. Each species of tree has worked out its appropriate equilibrium—according to its height and shape. Furthermore, each individual tree must adapt that balance to its particular location—accounting for the soil its roots have delved into and the degree of its exposure to the weather. Only the fittest thrive.
A tree has to endure challenging conditions far beyond what we feeble humans can tolerate. A venerable oak must stand its ground for several hundred years—resistant not only to gales, but to the assaults of temperature extremes, diseases, insect invasions, and droughts. When things get tough we mobile critters can run for cover, but a tree must stubbornly stand and face it all.
No wonder we look up to a tree towering above us and find ourselves filled with awe. That awesome feeling can swell within us, when we watch that mighty trunk deeply bow to a strong wind, but then sprightly spring back upright. It’s like watching a ballet.
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