One of our favorite birds is the Eastern Phoebe—a very sweet little critter with an ominous family name: Tyrant Flycatcher. I don’t know about the tyrant part, but I sure do appreciate the flycatcher part. These birds help keep the local bug population in check. The phoebe is a small, gray bird—rather dull looking. Its call is also unexciting—a repetitive, raspy rendition of its name.
Phoebes nest around manmade structures. I built a house with a large roof overhang, and the phoebes have nested under the eaves for many years—often rehabbing last year’s nest. They are acrobatic bug catchers, nabbing bugs on the wing (the flycatcher part). They perch on an open branch, bobbing their tail perkily up and down; then suddenly fly off and nab a morsel out of mid air.
When the babies (usually about four of them) are in their rapid growth stage, we watch the furious feeding activities of mom and dad. In the late morning and afternoons the parents fly many sorties, every minute or so, carrying food to their offspring.
This year I was able to get photos of the babies in the nest—watching them grow ever larger and marveling at how the four of them managed to crowd into that tiny cavity. We got to know them and came to feel like they were family members.
One morning the nest was empty. They had fledged. We could see activity in the surrounding trees, as the parents continued to feed the unskilled flyers for a few days. That was in June. Would the parents start a second brood? Sure enough, in a week or so there were four new eggs in the nest. Now I could get my first photos of hatchlings!
I watched as mom sat on her eggs. Phoebes are a little tame, seeing as how they choose to nest so close to buildings. Mom was often absent (the weather was warm enough that the eggs didn’t require her constant presence) so I could sneak in for a photo a couple of times a day. One morning the eggs had hatched and four featherless fetuses greeted me. So tiny and vulnerable!
I eagerly kept watch and took photos over the next couple days. One morning another empty nest greeted me. This was not the result of fledglings leaving the nest. Some critter had made a meal of them. My best guess is a snake dined on our birds. I have seen (and chased away) a black snake climbing the wall of the house, aiming for a phoebe nest.
This was a shocking and sad event, but that’s nature. The food chain occurs only at the cost of many lives. Who am I to question Mother Nature? Is the death of a sweet phoebe any sadder than all the bugs that it eats? Well, maybe to me, but to the surviving bugs it’s quite another thing. I could almost hear the celebratory shouts of the local insects... after all, fewer tyrants would be chasing them.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
The Sound of Wing Beats
While disparate people may march to the beat of different drummers, disparate birds’ wings beat to different sounds. Over the years I have observed that the wing noise made by birds are distinctly different. So I have recently classified the various sounds into five levels: choppers, whistlers, flappers, flutterers, and whisperers.
The choppers—like noisy little helicopters—are the loudest wing beaters. Geese are real choppers. Their big wings steadily beat the air so loudly that I can hear them when they fly overhead, unless they are flying high. Most of the time, however, the incessant honking of Canada geese does a good job of masking wing sounds.
The whistlers are mourning doves. They’re not as loud as the choppers but they certainly grab your attention. For several years I thought doves were calling out as they flew, but then I came to realize that the sound is the tips of their wings shedding little musical vortices.
The flappers are medium-size birds like cardinals and woodpeckers. They are not the most graceful fliers. They furiously beat the air with their wings, creating a flailing sound that resembles a jazz drummer rapidly tapping with a rubber twig on partially-inflated balloons.
The flutterers are small birds like titmice, chickadees, and phoebes. They gracefully, quickly, and quietly zoom about the yard. I can hear their wings only when they are within a dozen feet of me, and only then if no insects are whining or breezes wafting. Their flight is acrobatic and sure. I marvel as I watch them land on a tree branch or the edge of the feeder, with pinpoint accuracy. In contrast, the whistling dove can be heard a hundred feet off. I cross my fingers as it comes clumsily in for a landing on the feeder, hoping that it won’t miss and tumble towards the ground.
The stealth fliers I call the whisperers. Owl flight is virtually silent, so I read; but they’re so shy that I’ve never gotten close enough to verify that. But I can testify to the whispering flight of whip-poor-wills. I once sat in the outdoor tub on a black, hushed night, watching a whip-poor-will fly sorties from a stump hardly 20 feet away from me. The bird repeatedly flew up, grabbed a bug, and circled back to the stump. My eyes could barely make out the bird’s inky form. My ears heard absolutely nothing.
The choppers—like noisy little helicopters—are the loudest wing beaters. Geese are real choppers. Their big wings steadily beat the air so loudly that I can hear them when they fly overhead, unless they are flying high. Most of the time, however, the incessant honking of Canada geese does a good job of masking wing sounds.
The whistlers are mourning doves. They’re not as loud as the choppers but they certainly grab your attention. For several years I thought doves were calling out as they flew, but then I came to realize that the sound is the tips of their wings shedding little musical vortices.
The flappers are medium-size birds like cardinals and woodpeckers. They are not the most graceful fliers. They furiously beat the air with their wings, creating a flailing sound that resembles a jazz drummer rapidly tapping with a rubber twig on partially-inflated balloons.
The flutterers are small birds like titmice, chickadees, and phoebes. They gracefully, quickly, and quietly zoom about the yard. I can hear their wings only when they are within a dozen feet of me, and only then if no insects are whining or breezes wafting. Their flight is acrobatic and sure. I marvel as I watch them land on a tree branch or the edge of the feeder, with pinpoint accuracy. In contrast, the whistling dove can be heard a hundred feet off. I cross my fingers as it comes clumsily in for a landing on the feeder, hoping that it won’t miss and tumble towards the ground.
The stealth fliers I call the whisperers. Owl flight is virtually silent, so I read; but they’re so shy that I’ve never gotten close enough to verify that. But I can testify to the whispering flight of whip-poor-wills. I once sat in the outdoor tub on a black, hushed night, watching a whip-poor-will fly sorties from a stump hardly 20 feet away from me. The bird repeatedly flew up, grabbed a bug, and circled back to the stump. My eyes could barely make out the bird’s inky form. My ears heard absolutely nothing.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
Altocumulus Sketch Pad
This time of year—when summer’s long days rule—I repose in my evening outdoor tub and watch clouds float by, rather than gaze at winter’s black sky full of stars. The sun sets and dusk begins to creep over the land. I have a small window on the sky directly overhead, between two sycamore trees.
On many of these evenings puffy white altocumulus clouds float by, still lit up by the sun at their altitude of some four miles. These are not the big puffy cumulus clouds, but cloudlets that come in many shapes and forms, and are more scattered across the sky. These are the same clouds that make for a spectacular sunset, when you look off to the west and become awed by the color display.
When I lie back in the tub, empty my mind, and gaze into these altocumulus cotton puffs, shapes will suddenly leap out at me. I’ll see the face of an ogre here, a sweet kitten there, a bent old man over there. I find I can’t force these shapes. I can’t go looking for them. They come to me only when my mind is free. Children know this.
The Romans and Greeks enjoyed the pastime of watching cloud sketches. Renaissance painters sometimes hid whimsical figures in their creations. Shakespeare’s Hamlet plays a mind game with Polonius on the shapes of a cloud—calling it first a camel, then arbitrarily switching it to a weasel, and finally a whale. Sometimes my image of an ogre will slowly transform into a beautiful woman. My mind’s eye has so much fun.
Altocumulus clouds are formed when moist, warm air rises during the day. They almost never bring precipitation. They are just fair-weather, fanciful images in the sky. Because I’m watching them at sundown, long after the heat of the daytime sun formed them, they are often in the process of slowly evaporating. Very gradually, the fainter wisps fade away. That fading alters the sketches, as they float lazily by.
Sometimes it seems that Hamlet is quietly whispering in my ear—teasing me about what I’m seeing, causing me to change my mind about that image. It’s easy to be swayed while under the intoxicating influence of those ephemeral altocumulus clouds.
On many of these evenings puffy white altocumulus clouds float by, still lit up by the sun at their altitude of some four miles. These are not the big puffy cumulus clouds, but cloudlets that come in many shapes and forms, and are more scattered across the sky. These are the same clouds that make for a spectacular sunset, when you look off to the west and become awed by the color display.
When I lie back in the tub, empty my mind, and gaze into these altocumulus cotton puffs, shapes will suddenly leap out at me. I’ll see the face of an ogre here, a sweet kitten there, a bent old man over there. I find I can’t force these shapes. I can’t go looking for them. They come to me only when my mind is free. Children know this.
The Romans and Greeks enjoyed the pastime of watching cloud sketches. Renaissance painters sometimes hid whimsical figures in their creations. Shakespeare’s Hamlet plays a mind game with Polonius on the shapes of a cloud—calling it first a camel, then arbitrarily switching it to a weasel, and finally a whale. Sometimes my image of an ogre will slowly transform into a beautiful woman. My mind’s eye has so much fun.
Altocumulus clouds are formed when moist, warm air rises during the day. They almost never bring precipitation. They are just fair-weather, fanciful images in the sky. Because I’m watching them at sundown, long after the heat of the daytime sun formed them, they are often in the process of slowly evaporating. Very gradually, the fainter wisps fade away. That fading alters the sketches, as they float lazily by.
Sometimes it seems that Hamlet is quietly whispering in my ear—teasing me about what I’m seeing, causing me to change my mind about that image. It’s easy to be swayed while under the intoxicating influence of those ephemeral altocumulus clouds.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Urban Noise, Rural Quiet
I’ve recently read two books that described the riches of rural “auralscapes”—all the wonderful sounds that one can hear when immersed in quiet surroundings. My former life was in acoustics (noise control) so I have a predilection for hushed environments. Having lived in the quiet woods for 25 years now, I’ve come to treasure the serenity it offers.
There are two terms that are often used to describe auralscapes: loud and noise. Each represents very different things to different people. One person’s loud is another’s quiet. One person’s noise is another’s music. The contrasts become quite stark for those who live in urban or in rural environments.
In cities manmade noise is both constant and dominant. I call it manmade “noise”; an urban dweller often hardly notices it. The continual din of traffic, airplanes, and countless machines numbs one’s hearing. The blare of loudspeakers and similar loud sounds can even damage one’s ears and threaten health by creating stress. City dwellers can lose contact with subtle sounds, just as they have little concept of what might be seen in a dark sky.
A rural auralscape can be far quieter. Surrounded by the stillness, one begins to hear many faint sounds that are otherwise elusive. Depending on the local activity level of background sound like insects and the wind, one can hear animal calls from a long distance away in the woods. The scurrying of little critters in the underbrush may be discerned. The wing beats of a bird can be heard. The trickle of the creek is delightful to listen to. It is not silence; it is the wonder of quietness.
Of course, there is a cost to living in a quiet rural auralscape and being treated to all the wonderful sounds: one becomes much more sensitive to intrusive noise. The snarl of a small plane—not even heard in the city—can be very intrusive out here. One loud motorcycle invades your world for several minutes, since you can hear it several miles away. Numerous studies of human physiological response to noise have shown that we can tune out a constant drone far easier than an intermittent intruder. (In a similar way, loud and flashy TV commercials cleverly penetrate our sensory defenses.)
In my quiet haven in the woods I thrill to all the wonderful sounds of nature, and flinch from the noise of humans. The flinching can be very irritating, but the quiet rewards outweigh the noisy intrusions.
There are two terms that are often used to describe auralscapes: loud and noise. Each represents very different things to different people. One person’s loud is another’s quiet. One person’s noise is another’s music. The contrasts become quite stark for those who live in urban or in rural environments.
In cities manmade noise is both constant and dominant. I call it manmade “noise”; an urban dweller often hardly notices it. The continual din of traffic, airplanes, and countless machines numbs one’s hearing. The blare of loudspeakers and similar loud sounds can even damage one’s ears and threaten health by creating stress. City dwellers can lose contact with subtle sounds, just as they have little concept of what might be seen in a dark sky.
A rural auralscape can be far quieter. Surrounded by the stillness, one begins to hear many faint sounds that are otherwise elusive. Depending on the local activity level of background sound like insects and the wind, one can hear animal calls from a long distance away in the woods. The scurrying of little critters in the underbrush may be discerned. The wing beats of a bird can be heard. The trickle of the creek is delightful to listen to. It is not silence; it is the wonder of quietness.
Of course, there is a cost to living in a quiet rural auralscape and being treated to all the wonderful sounds: one becomes much more sensitive to intrusive noise. The snarl of a small plane—not even heard in the city—can be very intrusive out here. One loud motorcycle invades your world for several minutes, since you can hear it several miles away. Numerous studies of human physiological response to noise have shown that we can tune out a constant drone far easier than an intermittent intruder. (In a similar way, loud and flashy TV commercials cleverly penetrate our sensory defenses.)
In my quiet haven in the woods I thrill to all the wonderful sounds of nature, and flinch from the noise of humans. The flinching can be very irritating, but the quiet rewards outweigh the noisy intrusions.
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