Double-duty

The blind

One day, a couple of weeks ago, I was on the phone with a friend. I was standing over my desk, in front of the window in my office. The newly installed window, I might add.

I could see out it.

Of course, I could only see out it in narrow strips, because the Venetian blind was down.

One of the narrow strips, however, provided an excellent angle on the concrete border of the flowerbed under the window.

Right there, busily picking at something—I think it was a piece of that stuff that falls off the oak trees in the spring—the pollen—was a female cardinal.

In and of itself, this is not so miraculous. We have quite a few cardinals around here. They seem to like it by the water. (I know they like water. They love the sprinklers. Several will gather any time the sprinklers are on and swoop in and out of the water droplets with zest.)

The miracle here was how close she was. I could see every separate feather. The slight reddening on her crest, the red-orange beak. Her little roly-poly body (she was not an underfed cardinal).

The second miracle was how long she stayed. I usually get to observe a cardinal as it is in the process of disappearing—unless, of course, it’s barreling through water droplets, and even then, it’s a matter of fleeting glimpses.

But this lady sat on that concrete border, picking at her meal, for several minutes.

And why?

Because of the blind.

Never have I had a clearer demonstration of the value of the hunter’s blind.

Had the blind been open, had I been standing as I was in front of the window, that little birdie would have been gone almost before I noticed her. Movement behind the window? Bye, bye birdie.

As it was, she didn’t notice me.

And I got a miracle.

Avian Antics

Who can fathom a bird brain?

It’s been a couple of days of bird bemusedness.

First, there was an injured bluebird, being succored out at the farm.

And the begging duck, unfortunately trained by one of my cousins to like Cheerios, with the result that he (or she) was constantly underfoot at another cousin’s homecoming party. Which is hilarious—partly because ducks are inherently hilarious but also because I’m more used to dogs and cats weaving around my ankles than I am to ducks. (As I said to yet another cousin, “‘Stop chasing the duck’ isn’t a sentence I heard very often in New York.) So, funny, yes, but I don’t really imagine that dropped potato chips are good for ducks. On the other hand, hanging around the humans may keep it out of the way of predators, so who knows?

Meanwhile, we seem to be a stop on the migration path of the Turkey Vultures. Nothing like seeing five or six of them ominously circling overhead and then looking up to find another dozen hulking in the trees above you. Even if you didn’t know they were scavengers, I think you’d find those big dark forms, hunched over and peering down at you, to be something less than a good omen.

However, their dour presence is offset by the Canadian Geese standing on their heads in the pond. Three or four of them with their little butts in the air just make me laugh–especially with a small white heron standing there staring at them.

We had a baby hawk sitting on our mailbox for a time last week.

Then, there are the coots. I’ve been wondering where they’ve gone. And, yesterday, a group of four or five coots came back—in the rain—to huddle next to the sea wall. I don’t know why they don’t swim under the dock. The huddling seems to indicate they aren’t that fond of the rain, but they don’t take the obvious shelter. So, I don’t know. Who can fathom the mind of a bird?

But it’s a miracle, in the face of humanity’s ever increasing encroachment on their habitats, to have all these flighty friends around, still, to astonish and perplex me.

All I did

was walk out the door.

Honestly! The uproar in my driveway yesterday!

I just wanted to get the mail.

I walked out the side door and before I left the shelter of the carport, two rather large-sized doves took off from the driveway with much fluttering and flapping of wings and cheeps and squawks of panic such that you’d have thought I’d flung a cat into their midst. At the same time, one of the dang squirrels came around the corner, pulled a cartoon skid to a stop (hard to do on a bed of river rocks) and reversed course in a mad rush to escape that startled me just as much as I’d startled him.

(The squirrels, by the way, are no longer to be known in this blog as “the squirrels.” From here on out, they are always to be referred to as “the dang squirrels”—and, when especially irritating, as “those dang squirrels.”)

It seemed like a lot of unnecessary commotion for a simple trip to the mailbox.

Life is like that sometimes.

You set out in all innocence to achieve something of no great moment only to find everyone around you inexplicably horrified and upset by your (to you) harmless actions.

It’s worth remembering, I guess, that there are probably always doves and dang squirrels along the way—whatever you’re trying to do. And their reaction may seem silly to you, but it seems life and death to them.

And it’s also worth remembering—if you happen to be the one squeaking and squawking when the monster is coming up behind you—that maybe she just wants to get the mail.

No avian fatalities

Fair flying weather for the feathered flock.

I cleaned my windows three days ago, and there have been no avian fatalities. It’s a miracle!

The thing about the windows is that they sort of act like mirrors. When they are clean, they reflect the surrounding trees and sky. The birds can’t see them. So, the moment when the windows have first been cleaned is the moment of maximum danger. It almost makes me not want to clean the windows.

Almost.

But part of what makes Casa Lagarto such a great house is the view. And you can’t see the view if you can’t see out the windows. (Although to be fair, I didn’t realize how dirty they were until I cleaned them. However. . .)

I cleaned them on Friday. It’s not a bad job. As long as the weather is reasonably warm, and you don’t mind getting soaked. I’ve got a long extension pole and a squeegee and a divided bucket. A little dish soap, a little elbow grease—actually, shoulder muscles are more relevant than elbows—and it gets done. The hardest part are the ones on the second story because that’s really the limit of the extension pole. The whole operation is shaky at that point. But, I persevered, and the outside of all my windows are now sparkling clean—with, it must be confessed, assorted streaks.

Could it be the streaks that have protected the birds?

No. There aren’t that many streaks. No more than on previous occasions when we did have some serious collisions. Twice, birds have knocked themselves out. One—an ibis—sat on the grass afterwards for so long that I even called the bird rescue team. I was given specific instructions on how to safely pick up the bird to move it somewhere safe from predators pending collection by the rehabilitators. When we went to do it, however, the bird pulled itself together and flew away.

It was a traumatic experience for everyone concerned—except, maybe, the bird rescue people who didn’t actually have to do anything. I suppose, though, that was a miracle, too. Just like the one that is keeping them out of harm’s way now.

And, every day, the windows get less clean and less dangerous.

Fingers and feathers crossed.

A college of cardinals

No, we’re not electing a Pope.

“College” is one of the collective nouns for a flock of cardinals–as in birds. Others are “conclave,” “radiance,” “deck,” and “Vatican.” Alliteration explains “college” and “conclave,” and I get why “radiance” would come into play. “Vatican,” too, makes some sense. But, “deck?” Is it a reference to “deck of cards?” I guess it must be, but–note to whoever makes these things up–I think you’re reaching.

Anyway, the cardinals are a Monday Miracle.

They’re back.

One of the minor miracles about cardinals is that I can recognize them. My skills as a naturalist are about average. I can identify most four-legged creatures and tell the difference between a bird, a snake and a fish. After that, it gets somewhat hazy.

I mean, distinguishing one bird from another? Well, I’ve gotten to where I recognize the ospreys and the Great Blue Herons and the bald eagles. Woodpeckers are clear. And owls. Most of the other little feathered things that flit around. . .many of them look alike.

But cardinals!

Bright red.

Crests.

And a song that I’m beginning to know. (Unless I’m confusing it with the Carolina Wren, which is entirely possible.)

Now, when I say ‘they’re back,’ I can’t swear to the fact that they’ve ever gone away. But I have been noticing quite a few of them hanging around in the last few days.

They provide a nice note of complementary color in the yard. It goes well with the pine cone ginger–and my roof. And they chirp up a storm. Last year, they demonstrated a love for sprinklers which they have not gotten to indulge lately, but I’m thinking that may be a reason to install a birdbath. Maybe one with a spray fountain? Solar-powered, if I can find it. (Another of those “someday,” things. Probably, I should focus on furniture first.)

All of this is to say, I am happy that a college of cardinals is convening conveniently close at hand.

Where have all the whip-poor-wills gone?

Long time passing.

Can’t you just hear that sung to a Pete Seeger tune by Peter, Paul & Mary?

All kidding aside, though, where have the whip-poor-wills gone? When I was a kid, they were one of the few birds I could recognize by their call. The other being a bob-white.

For me to recognize them, they must have been pretty prevalent. Now, I never hear a whip-poor-will or a bob-white.

A little research shows that they are indeed in decline, and no one is quite sure why. Destruction of habitat due to building, pesticides that kill their food source, and global warming are the most common reasons cited for the dwindling numbers.

My uncle has another theory, although I’m not sure it holds good for areas farther afield than Florida. He thinks the egrets eat the whip-poor-wills’ eggs. Whip-poor-wills, and for that matter, bob-whites nest on the ground. And egrets have been known to prey on the eggs of sea birds–so I guess it’s possible. I suspect it is also true that the egrets are a more efficient competition for the same food.

They do seem to be efficient. They have very few predators, and as long as humans raise cattle, their habitat will survive. They do okay. First bred in Florida in 1953, they had spread to Canada by 1962 and California by the mid-sixties. A successful species.

So, I don’t know. A bunch of egrets following a herd of cattle is a pretty sight, but I do miss the whip-poor-will’s song.

Elaine Smith Writes