I've written before about the life lessons that birds provide us, if we can perceive them. I got another one this morning, and I'm glad to say I was awake enough to eventually accept it as a lesson.
I have a seed feeder, hung high in one of our shore pines to prevent the bears having dinner every night on our shelled sunflower seed (and wrecking the feeder in the process). It takes a step stool to access it, but it keeps temptation beyond paw's reach for the furry guys. So - I thought I had it nailed. All that yummy seed was safe for the nuthatches, chickadees, juncos and other visitors. The spill was picked up by towhees, more juncos and sparrows. So really, no waste. Perfect. Ha.
I looked out this morning and a small gang of crows was having a ball raiding the feeder. Probably a small crew of juveniiles that spends the winter in the neighborhood. They come each morning and eat corn with the ducks, but there are so many ducks that it's a toss up. Plus those mallard hens can be pretty clear about whose corn it is. I've seen more than one crow jump straight up as his tail is firmly yanked by an indignant mallard hen.
Today the crows really had their game on. One crow would hang from the platform of the feeder and beat his wings. This made the feeder swing wildly. Since the platform is relatively flat, seed rained down from all sides on the other crows waiting below. It was ingenious. Dang! So I went out to the side of the house and yelled, swung my arms and sure enough, they all flew quickly away. But not very far did they fly. About fifteen minutes later I heard the leader of the pack give his call, and back they cautiously came. So I went out again and waved my arms. But I realized that I probably wasn't going to win this battle. Because I had made it a battle when maybe it didn't have to be. They were just being crows, after all.
Zen teachers are fond of saying that the teacher appears when the student is ready. I take this to mean that we can repeat the same mistakes and heartaches in life, over and over, until one day, maybe we see things through a different lens. Through a 'student' lens.
If I want to sit in my lawn chair all day, jealously guarding the seed feeder, I'll keep away the crows. But I'll also keep away all the other birds, since I'm an equal opportunity scare-crow. I wave my arms and everyone heads for the thickets. Or, I can think it through and maybe come up with a flexible solution. Do the dance, so to speak.
There will always be crows in our lives. Clever dark beings who jam up our perfect systems, hopes and dreams just when we think we have them all fool-proofed. Native people have known and respected Crow for ages: trickster and villain - smart villain though, and one with an appreciation for a good joke.
Not to say that this is an easy thing, but seeing lessons rather than battles has to be at least a good thing.
With the crows, I'm going to try a compromise. I have a feeder with a screen-barrier that only lets in song-bird size birds. Others are too big to squeeze through to access the goodies. I'm going to hang that next to the platform feeder which will still have seed, but much less. I still want to feed the crow gang. I respect their smarts and I love to watch them play.
Each day gives us chances to learn - I surely miss countless lessons, but the birds and all of nature continue to offer to teach us in gentle, humbling and often humorous ways.
Winter Sunset, Loomis Outlet
Monday, November 12, 2012
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Hunting Harrier
It was one of those days in the Northwest: curtains of fine rain made a foggy shroud right down to the ground. Gusting wind carried waves of fine rain in every direction. I had been out at Fort Stevens State Park, checking out Parking Lot C for birds that might have been blown in by the recent series of storms. It was so windy and wet that even the hardiest of birds had taken cover. The sturdy wood viewing platform shuddered in the wind gusts and the jetty and sand below trembled with the force of the incoming waves. I couldn't even scare up a sparrow in the field adjacent to the dike.
As I made the long, straight drive back to the main park I began to pass by Trestle Bay. There is a beautiful, open grassy field that becomes a marsh, and in the bay an old wooden trestle that's often good for seeing hunting peregrines. Not today, though. I decided it would be more productive to look for birds in the protected, treed portion of the park.
Then, as if out of nowhere, a northern harrier was keeping pace with my car in the grassy field next to Trestle Bay. It was a female, warm brown feathering with the characteristic wide, white band just where the tail begins. She was focused on the ground a few feet below her, head turned down, eyes and ears completely tuned to any mouse activity in the tall, wet grasses. Her wings tilted and adjusted to the wind, giving her the characteristic butterfly flight. Tail fanned and tipped, making aerodynamic adjustments to her chosen path. A flick of tail and wing could change her course in an instant if a mouse was spotted below.
Harriers have owl-like faces with feathers that form a pattern that carries sound to their ears. The males are a lovely gray and females are brown. Since they must protect the nest, brown feathering, as with many female birds, is necessary.
They're also known as marsh hawks, as this was their name until the American Ornithological Union made the decision to rename them. If you watch a northern harrier as she very thoroughly and patiently combs a field, tilting and turning only a few feet above the ground, fierce face always turned down to see and hear, the name fits.
I used to see a lot more harriers on the Peninsula. The grassy dunes are perfect for hunting the voles and mice they need to survive. As houses have pushed out to and beyond the primary dune, harriers, along with other bird life, have diminished. They require these open fields to do their work and bring home the food.
But on this windy, wet day, this bird was at work by the Bay. For wild things, bad weather is just a factor to work with. Food must still be found. As she worked the field, still patiently and thoroughly hunting the soggy tussocks, I wished her well from my dry, warm shelter in the car. And a small part of me, maybe a tiny, ancient remnant of an older life, wished for myself her keenness and wild beauty.
As I made the long, straight drive back to the main park I began to pass by Trestle Bay. There is a beautiful, open grassy field that becomes a marsh, and in the bay an old wooden trestle that's often good for seeing hunting peregrines. Not today, though. I decided it would be more productive to look for birds in the protected, treed portion of the park.
Then, as if out of nowhere, a northern harrier was keeping pace with my car in the grassy field next to Trestle Bay. It was a female, warm brown feathering with the characteristic wide, white band just where the tail begins. She was focused on the ground a few feet below her, head turned down, eyes and ears completely tuned to any mouse activity in the tall, wet grasses. Her wings tilted and adjusted to the wind, giving her the characteristic butterfly flight. Tail fanned and tipped, making aerodynamic adjustments to her chosen path. A flick of tail and wing could change her course in an instant if a mouse was spotted below.
Harriers have owl-like faces with feathers that form a pattern that carries sound to their ears. The males are a lovely gray and females are brown. Since they must protect the nest, brown feathering, as with many female birds, is necessary.
They're also known as marsh hawks, as this was their name until the American Ornithological Union made the decision to rename them. If you watch a northern harrier as she very thoroughly and patiently combs a field, tilting and turning only a few feet above the ground, fierce face always turned down to see and hear, the name fits.
I used to see a lot more harriers on the Peninsula. The grassy dunes are perfect for hunting the voles and mice they need to survive. As houses have pushed out to and beyond the primary dune, harriers, along with other bird life, have diminished. They require these open fields to do their work and bring home the food.
But on this windy, wet day, this bird was at work by the Bay. For wild things, bad weather is just a factor to work with. Food must still be found. As she worked the field, still patiently and thoroughly hunting the soggy tussocks, I wished her well from my dry, warm shelter in the car. And a small part of me, maybe a tiny, ancient remnant of an older life, wished for myself her keenness and wild beauty.
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