There is no bird quite like the woodpecker. Its clownish actions, odd call, rapid hollow-limb drumming, hole drilling, and garish coloring make it unique. We have three species of woodpecker around here: pileated, red-bellied, and downy. Unless you consulted a bird field guide, it’s easy to get confused about the names of these birds. Just those species with red in their names can be perplexing: red-headed, red-naped, red-bellied, and red-cockaded.
The pileated woodpecker is the biggest of them all—up to a foot and a half long. It is the joker of the pack; the Woody Woodpecker cartoon is a caricature of the pileated. It has a laugh that spreads throughout the woods—making it sound derisive and superior. It’s a beautiful bird; seizing your attention when it flies, white wing patches flashing. The male and female look identical. The male delights in finding hollow limbs and filling the woods with his loud drumming—in the style of a gorilla defiantly pounding his chest.
I’ve watched two pileated woodpeckers chase each other around a tree trunk—feet clinging to the bark, feinting and dodging, trying to intimidate each other… sort of playing chicken, until one gives up and flies away. I once watched two hawks attack a pileated woodpecker, tearing loose a few feathers, and then fly off when they spotted me.
The middle-size resident woodpecker is the red-bellied; about half the size of the pileated. In my mind, this one ought to be named red-headed, but maybe that name had already been assigned—to one whose entire head is crimson, not just a red patch on top. The red-bellied loves our feeder. His eating habit is fascinating to watch: he grabs a sunflower seed, jams it in a crack in the feeder, bangs it hard a couple of times, and fishes the nut out with his long tongue. He also loves our cherry and mulberry trees and chastises me when I come to pick his fruit.
All woodpeckers—other than the pileated—have what is called an undulating flight. They noisily and fiercely pump their wings a few times and then coast for an equal period. This undulation saves flight energy and prevents lactose from building up in their muscles, when they momentarily relax their wings.
Last and least of our woodpeckers is the downy—it’s only the size of a bluebird. It has the tiniest red spot (only the male) on the back of its head. It’s a black-and-white checkerboard bird. The downy also loves the feeder, but grabs a seed and flies to a nearby tree, where he jams the seed in a crack in the bark and hammers away. I’ve watched one use the same crack for a dozen consecutive seeds.
A pileated woodpecker may look clownish, but I’d not want to have any part of my anatomy fall under the aim of that big bill. I’ve seen one excavate a four-inch hole in a dead tree trunk, in less than a minute. How can they do this without brain damage? They have a fluid sack surrounding their brain, which absorbs the shock of their blows. Otherwise they’d soon slide into the mental state of punch-drunk boxer.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Avian Artists
I have written several times about my fascination with the songs of birds. Countless times I have been arrested in my labors by one of their melodies. Sometimes I’m just trying to identify who the artist is. Some birds—like the chickadee—are easy to identify. Its call is distinctive and it is tame enough that one can watch it sing in a nearby tree. Others are maddeningly challenging to identify—its call may not be distinct enough for me to identify and he refuses to come out of the woods so I can see him.
I’ve gradually and consistently come to appreciate birdsong—learning to recognize how a given species’ song changes over the seasons or to get lost in the amazement of just how that tiny bundle of feathers can produce such outspoken and gorgeous music. It can be as absorbing to me as attempting to appreciate the contrasts and qualities of Bach and Rachmaninov.
Serendipity recently found me reading a delightful book that was published over 100 years ago: Field Book of Wild Birds and Their Music by F. Schuyler Mathews. This remarkable man possessed both naturalist and musical skills. He interpreted and recorded the songs of birds in musical notation. (He was a little early for tape recorders, thankfully.) He wrote the scores of melodies of fifty New England birds—demonstrating that they sing with discernable scales, chords, tempos, and keys. They are true avian artists!
In a charming introduction to his book Mr. Mathews wrote, “This book is not the proper medium in which to set forth evolutionary theories of birdsong, but I must emphatically say that the bird sings first for the love of music and second for the love of a lady. I put the lady second, for, if he did not love music first he would not have sung to her, and birds, like the rest of us, are a trifle selfish. What we like most we think others will like as well, hence, in a moment of unselfishness we share the object of our selfishness!” That passage sets the tone for his enchanting book.
Now, when I pause to listen to a bird, I often see one of Mathews’s scores in my mind’s eye. I can hear the symphony; the various phrases and melodic passages. And I wonder, does the bird really have an intention for that song (such as seeking a mate or warning an adversary) or is he doing it purely “for the love of the music”?
I’ve gradually and consistently come to appreciate birdsong—learning to recognize how a given species’ song changes over the seasons or to get lost in the amazement of just how that tiny bundle of feathers can produce such outspoken and gorgeous music. It can be as absorbing to me as attempting to appreciate the contrasts and qualities of Bach and Rachmaninov.
Serendipity recently found me reading a delightful book that was published over 100 years ago: Field Book of Wild Birds and Their Music by F. Schuyler Mathews. This remarkable man possessed both naturalist and musical skills. He interpreted and recorded the songs of birds in musical notation. (He was a little early for tape recorders, thankfully.) He wrote the scores of melodies of fifty New England birds—demonstrating that they sing with discernable scales, chords, tempos, and keys. They are true avian artists!
In a charming introduction to his book Mr. Mathews wrote, “This book is not the proper medium in which to set forth evolutionary theories of birdsong, but I must emphatically say that the bird sings first for the love of music and second for the love of a lady. I put the lady second, for, if he did not love music first he would not have sung to her, and birds, like the rest of us, are a trifle selfish. What we like most we think others will like as well, hence, in a moment of unselfishness we share the object of our selfishness!” That passage sets the tone for his enchanting book.
Now, when I pause to listen to a bird, I often see one of Mathews’s scores in my mind’s eye. I can hear the symphony; the various phrases and melodic passages. And I wonder, does the bird really have an intention for that song (such as seeking a mate or warning an adversary) or is he doing it purely “for the love of the music”?
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Duking Doves
After several years of keeping their distance, mourning doves have begun flying to the feeder. This bird is usually a ground pecker—bobbing its head randomly about as it mincingly steps this way, then that. Over the last several years we might get a quick dove visit to the yard, but only briefly to peck around in the grass before it flew off—its wings whistling as if it was calling out in its effort to become airborne.
The mourning dove is a first cousin to the rock dove—the common city pigeon who loves to beg from soft-touch, park-bench sitting city people. They both are in the family Columbidae. (By the way, the city pigeon is an import from Europe.) While its city cousin is colored in shades of gray, the mourning dove is brown-gray, with a lovely reddish-brown belly.
Pete Dunne has written several books on birds. His descriptions of them often evoke a chuckle in me. He says that the mourning dove’s “head is small, almost ridiculously so.” The bird looks “like a teardrop with a tail or a pear on a stick. The turquoise-ringed eye is balefully black.” (He describes the city pigeon as a “tame to the point of being underfoot. Particularly in urban areas, attracted to anyone eating anything.”)
The mourning dove’s call has given it its soulful name, but I hear it as a sweet, comforting lullaby—reminding me of my mom’s soft songs when she put me to bed as a youngster. When few other birds are calling out (late morning, early evening), the dove’s gentle ooAAH, cooo, coo, coo wafts charmingly through the woods. The low-pitched call carries an impressively long distance through the trees. Sometimes I can hear three or four of them at scattered locations in the forest.
Over the past few years I have usually seen them in pairs (both sexes appear identical), the two of them always close and cordial companions. Lately, however, I’ve watched two doves duke it out at the feeder—one of them consistently bumptious and besting the other. What’s going on? It’s well past mating season, so it shouldn’t be two males competing for a female’s favors. I’m sure it can’t be the convivial mates in a squabble. I’ll just have to keep watching, and maybe the mystery will clear itself up some day. The closer I watch nature, the more I become aware of what I do not know.
Pete Dunne has spoiled me now. I can’t help looking at a mourning dove, chuckle over its “ridiculously” small head, and perceive it as a feeble-minded critter. When I do it seems to turn that “balefully black” eye on me, as if to ask who that pompous, nonflying dude with the fat head is.
The mourning dove is a first cousin to the rock dove—the common city pigeon who loves to beg from soft-touch, park-bench sitting city people. They both are in the family Columbidae. (By the way, the city pigeon is an import from Europe.) While its city cousin is colored in shades of gray, the mourning dove is brown-gray, with a lovely reddish-brown belly.
Pete Dunne has written several books on birds. His descriptions of them often evoke a chuckle in me. He says that the mourning dove’s “head is small, almost ridiculously so.” The bird looks “like a teardrop with a tail or a pear on a stick. The turquoise-ringed eye is balefully black.” (He describes the city pigeon as a “tame to the point of being underfoot. Particularly in urban areas, attracted to anyone eating anything.”)
The mourning dove’s call has given it its soulful name, but I hear it as a sweet, comforting lullaby—reminding me of my mom’s soft songs when she put me to bed as a youngster. When few other birds are calling out (late morning, early evening), the dove’s gentle ooAAH, cooo, coo, coo wafts charmingly through the woods. The low-pitched call carries an impressively long distance through the trees. Sometimes I can hear three or four of them at scattered locations in the forest.
Over the past few years I have usually seen them in pairs (both sexes appear identical), the two of them always close and cordial companions. Lately, however, I’ve watched two doves duke it out at the feeder—one of them consistently bumptious and besting the other. What’s going on? It’s well past mating season, so it shouldn’t be two males competing for a female’s favors. I’m sure it can’t be the convivial mates in a squabble. I’ll just have to keep watching, and maybe the mystery will clear itself up some day. The closer I watch nature, the more I become aware of what I do not know.
Pete Dunne has spoiled me now. I can’t help looking at a mourning dove, chuckle over its “ridiculously” small head, and perceive it as a feeble-minded critter. When I do it seems to turn that “balefully black” eye on me, as if to ask who that pompous, nonflying dude with the fat head is.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
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