A Royal Fly-By

Royalty seem to be in the news a lot these days, with the Olympics and all.  We had a visit right here in our yard.  Just like many royals, this one jetted in and did not stay long.   This royal also generated many oohs and aahs and excitement from those visited.

As I sat quietly watching the water, not really paying attention, a very agitated and panicked collared dove came zigging and zagging from the south, about two feet above the water.  He  dashed side to side, trying to evade and yet make maximum speed at the same time. He was silent, all effort focused on survival.

 Then, effortlessly, fiercely,  the peregrine falcon appeared.  Just as near to the water, the dark blue-gray jet closed in easily on his prey.  Peregrines have a characteristic wing beat:  powerful, purposeful, full of confidence.  The dark helmet markings on his face flashed in the light, and the big, dark eye was focused only on the dove. 

As if he had just decided to put on the gas, the falcon accelerated his wing beats, moved his feet forward in a 'grab' position, and snagged the hapless dove with one strong foot. At least the end is quick in such powerful talons.  And peregrines don't hunt for sport, they hunt to eat and live.

Peregrines engender the word 'royalty' in the bird world.  Long a choice with falconers, they have in inherent dignity and presence that everyone encountering the bird will quickly notice. Their quiet authority and physical power are beautiful to behold.

The peregrine population was almost wiped out due to  DDT, but since it was banned in the US, they have made a great comeback.  Now they can be found even in the cities, nesting on narrow window ledges near parks.  One more example of wildlife doing their best to live among us.  Their prey is primarily birds, and city pigeons and starlings are prime targets.   Because the looming shadow of a peregrine on the hunt will panic and disperse whole flocks of birds, vineyard managers have begun to use falconers and falcons to keep pesty birds from eating their entire grape crop.  And airports now use them to patrol and keep hazardous flocks of birds off the runways.   What great examples of working with a wild creature to the benefit of both.

But here in the quiet marshes and dusky woods, peregrines perch quietly  at the marsh's edge, watching and waiting.   When prey is spotted, they launch effortlessly into their powerful flight: a royal on the wing.

Where the Wild Things Really Are

They are here all around us.  We are so lucky.   Just this morning, in the quiet of a soft, cloudy dawn, I heard the kuk-kakuk-kakuk of a Virginia Rail.  This Rail is a marsh bird - a very skulky, secretive bird who is hard to find and see, even for birders.  Rails are rather gawky waders, and in bird references, can be found under the heading "Chicken-like Wading Birds".  They do resemble chickens with shortened, variegated brown feathers.  This Rail has  a beautiful dense gray cheek-patch surrounding a fierce red eye.  The bill is long and reddish-orange, quite unchicken-like.  Actually, they're quite the dapper bird.
 Rails usually live in  remote marshlands, away from houses, traffic and human noise.   Our lake outlet is near houses, traffic and human noise, yet there is still enough marshland, enough water and cover to make this Rail happy.  He has been here, calling, for at least three seasons.

Many folks would argue the value of a bird that is rarely seen.  What do they contribute?
There is wildlife all around us, and most of it is rarely seen, due to well-placed caution on the critters' end of things.  We do see bears here in the yard, and yes, they can be a nuisance.  But think of what they're doing.  Think of how many pounds of berries it takes to fill a bear's stomach.  Who was here first?  Is it the bear's fault that what used to be a place to forage is now a house with a green lawn?

Development is a given. What I  believe is that we cannot allow ourselves to lose the wild things.  There is untold value in wildness.  To know that there are places in the world where wild things never, ever see a human during their lifespan.  To know that there are creatures that make their way through life completely out of human control.  To hear the distant, haunting call of a  bird or critter and not know what it is.  The mystery of that is  ancient and human.  The earth is not only ours.  "In wildness is the preservation of  the world" ~ a quote by Henry David Thoreau, says it all.

And here, where we live, we have birds and mammals all around, trying to make an honest living just like us.  We can all be here.  With forethought, flexibility and respect we can live beside them and enjoy their wild calls, hoots and honks. We are all connected on this planet and the diminishment of one species touches us all.

So enough with the preaching.  Please - step outside and listen.  You may not hear a rare or unusual bird, but even the crows in your yard are wild things.  If you really see them, something is there to be learned.
Crows may be the only connection with wildness that some folks have.  We are luckier here. There is deep value in it, no matter where.  We must cultivate that value and not let it disappear, along with the wild things.

We need the tonic of wildness, to wade sometimes in marshes where
the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe;
to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground....
We need to witness our own limits transgressed, and some life 
pasturing freely where we never wander.  ~ Walden

Summer Visitor

Early this morning as I was watching the various duck families  sort themselves out on the lawn, I noticed a bird moving deep in the alder at the water's edge.  The color of the bird, the little I could see, was different than the usual suspects: chickadees, blackbirds, goldfinches.  This was a rich, soft, smooth brown fading to a warm, golden belly.  His head suddenly popped out of the greenery and I was looking at my first cedar waxwing of the summer. 

These little guys are beautiful.  Their faces sport a black mask softly outlined in white, topped by cinnamon head feathers that are long and form a kind of duck tail hairdo in back.  Their bodies are cinnamon, bellies golden, tails grey.  Lots of color going on.  And then, the best part.  The reason they're called waxwings.  Each wing is tipped with small scarlet spots - scarlet that looks like wax from a distance.  And the end of their tails are tipped in brilliant yellow.  Quite the flashy bird. 
Waxwings love berries and that's where to find them.  Any fruiting shrub or tree can be their host.  They are social and move in flocks, talking as they go in a sweet, high-pitched whistle.  Acrobats, they will hang upside down to get to the very best berries.

Waxwings live inland all year round and some move out to the coast in the summer.  They used to be considered "very rare visitors" to the coast, according to my Birds of Oregon  reference.   I think that has changed and they're a bit more common here these days.

My favorite way to find these birds is on a clear winter day -  hearing their singing trilling call,  then seeing a busy flock moving through a bare tree, plucking and savoring the red berries in the cold winter sun.

Three new sizes available...

There's a certain time in late May, when suddenly, there are ducklings everywhere.  The hens seems to choose the quiet evening time for their debut.  The water is mirror still, shadows long, the air quiet as if waiting for these new little sparks of life to make their appearance.  Almost casually, a mother hen appears from behind a tuft of marsh grass and behind her is her brown and golden brood. 
This year we have three families visiting, and each brood was hatched at a different time, given their current size and number.   The oldest brood is down to two banty-hen size ducklings.  Almost as big as their mother, but still staying close to her and cheeping like a newly-hatched duckling if danger is perceived.  The hen, like all mothers, is vigilant.  She leads them up onto the grass where the humans have thoughtfully thrown cracked corn.  They feast on this new, rich taste as she watches, alert, turning her head in all directions to sense any early threat.  If the ducklings spot the human, they're off in a waddling panic to the water.  The hen, cautious, but used to us, is willing to stay to see if more corn is forthcoming.  But those babies won't be convinced.  She opts to go with them and return for more food later.
The ducklings have lost their baby markings and are mostly a velvety mid-brown.  Their bodies are lengthening and their faces have more adult features than soft baby features.  Sadly, there are only two.  I'm willing to bet that she started out with ten or twelve little ones.  It must be very hard to watch the number dwindle due to predation from otters, cats, rats, eagles.  So many dangers in this world.  Raising two healthy young is a great  accomplishment,  as we all know.
The next family shows up, climbing the short incline from water to shore and four little ones follow the hen.  These guys look about two to three weeks old. Still very duckling-like. Mother stays much closer, and the family stays close to shore for a quick escape, if needed.  They still have their fuzz and rounded features, and they check with the hen often to be sure she is near.  Her head moves rhythmically as she continuously counts and recounts her four.  Since they're constantly moving in the grass, it's a good idea.
The final group approach more cautiously yet.  Mother hovers at the land's edge for probably twenty minutes before deciding it's safe enough for her squad.  She heaves up the incline and eight tiny, fuzzy little ones follow.  They don't focus so much on the corn as on this new environment.  And the hen has her hands full.  If I listen closely through the open window, I can hear her quiet muttered instructions.  If one duckling roams too far, she raises her head and her voice becomes more insistent.  They spend just a short time on shore, just enough time for the hen to stock up on some good corn.  Then mutter, mutter, back she goes down the slope with eight obedient babies behind.  They're so tiny on the water, only the ripples from their little paddling feet can be seen.

It's dusk now.  The water is still with the reflection of pinkish lavender clouds. An occasional leaf eddies down from the alder to cause a ripple which is sometimes struck by a curious fish.  The duck broods are tucked away in the marsh, the smaller ducklings under the hen, the larger huddled close.   Mother hen will sleep with one eye open, as there are dangers to her brood at night as well.  As the moon rises and the screech owl calls her soft toot, even duck eyes fall closed until another day.

The Neighbors

Some of my favorite neighbors hang out under the flower-filled wheel barrow in our front yard.  A mallard couple, attentive male and non-breeding (?) hen.  I question non-breeding because it seems like she would have peeled off by now and found a secluded place to build a nest for the coming eggs.  Mallards nest in reeds and other grasses on lake and pond edges.  But this  hen is staying with her man.  Mallards are what is called serially monogamous:  they stay with the same mate through the year, but switch to a different mate each year.  I wonder.  Because this couple has been neighbors for going on four years.  Maybe she has the wiles to keep the same male by her side even if she isn't interested in nesting.  Early in the morning I can see them comfortably roosting just under the lip of the barrow.  When the garage door opens, signalling the human with the can of corn, they rise and the male begins a soft, muttering conversation.  They watch cautiously - as if after all this time I'm going to make a run at them - then hurry in to enjoy the corn before the crows arrive.  The male keeps a weather eye on the surroundings, guarding the hen from any danger.

The Canada goose couple still lives across the pond, and again, the female shows no interest in beginning nesting activities.  The male guards her jealously, arching his neck and hissing at any perceived intruders.  She hangs back, grazing and enjoying the sun.  They move up to the big lake for the night, into bigger, safer water.  Their leave-takings and arrivals back are heralded by lots of loud and joyous honking.  They return about 430 in the morning, and I usually awake to hear them.  The riffles from their landing are reflected in the moonlight on the water. 

More productive neighbors are the violet-green swallows.  We have six nest boxes up, just on the shore.  It's hard to tell how many are occupied because the swallows are very wily and fast in their comings and goings.  Swooping and diving over the water, hawking insects to carry back to their broods, they make  wide, graceful circles and at the last minute, make perfect dives into the small nest box hole.  I make the holes oblong and small, that way foiling house sparrows and starlings that would love to nest there.  It's fun to watch a frustrated sparrow try to squeeze his rotund body into the small hole.  Determination isn't enough: it's too narrow and they finally give up.  The sleek, silky swallows have no trouble entering. 

At dusk, the water is still, reflecting a perfect blue sky.  The geese rest quietly opposite, bodies touching,  and the ducks are again bedding down in the soft grass under the barrow.  The wheeling, chittering swallows, purple-green backs flashing in the low sun, make a last food run for their hungry young and disappear into the safety of the nest boxes.   It's so lovely: it will all start again tomorrow.

Geese are on the move

Yesterday was a crystal blue day.  I was lucky to be visiting friends on the bay side, and as we talked, I watched threads of dark geese moving on the distant water.  Thin lines would lift and float, break up and return to the water in smaller groups.  Some would fly higher, black pencil sketches against the blue water and far green shore.  Ragged groups would fly, dip, fly.  Restless, readying for the flight  back north to breed.  These are Brant, dapper little sea geese that are rarely found inland.  They feed on aquatic plants found in the near-inland waters and avoid the shore.
They seem sensitive to disturbance on land and rest in huge floating rafts out in the bay.  In May, the last of the migrants will leave us for their breeding ground, as far north as the islands off Alaska.
But for the time being,  they are a beautiful sight and sound on the water for us land bound beings to enjoy.
Farther south, other geese are moving.  At Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, in far southeastern Oregon and a Disneyland for birding, the Ross's geese and Snow geese are massing.  In the flat distance, they look like snow fields, vast white, undulating masses of them.  But you know they're full of life when you open your car window and hear them.  There is no way to describe the beauty of their undulating, yelping call that's carried on the chill breeze off Steen's Mountain.  Thousands of them, all talking at once, and below this call,  a soft vibration comes to the ear.  A humming from the flock that is mesmerizing.  And if you're lucky and a huge flock decides to move while you're watching, it's  heart stopping.  The call increases in intensity and seems to go up in pitch, and is definitely louder and louder, as they begin to move about, stretch wings, and then up they go, rising in a white, shimmering mass, calling and winging into the sky. An exultatation of geese.  There's just nothing like it.  In fact, a Finnish composer of classical music, after witnessing such a movement, wrote a symphony, including this bird song.  If you play that music and witness a fly-off, well it's just over the top.
It's fun to search the flocks of Ross's and Snow geese for what are called 'blue-morphs'.  These are rare to unusual individuals that are dark blue to grey in color, commonly called blue geese.   You'd think they would stick out in the crowd, but they can be pretty hard to spot.
Looking out my window at home, I see the Canada goose pair across the water.  The male, now quite hormonal and guarding the female very closely, and the female, mostly just loafing around and grazing.  I wonder if she will nest this year.
 In some parts of the country Canada geese are considered pests.  Like starlings.  I appreciate the damage they can do, but watching these two, representative of the family Branta, I have to wish them well.

A Mallard Emergency

I should have noticed sooner. All afternoon, a sunny break in the rainy weather, I had worked in the side yard.  I have a native plant garden that stretches from near the house to very near the pond.  Because it's damp and shady, lots of northwest natives like it there.  I have a huckleberry, several kinds of ferns, and just last week, one of two trilliums that I successfully transplanted showed two luminous white blooms.  Trilliums like deep shade, and this one is happy under the alder, where the white faces of the flowers seem to float in the cool dark.  By the way, I bought the trilliums from a native plant nursery - it's not nice to steal from Mother Nature. So anyway, working away, I was happily oblivious to the drama unfolding not fifty feet away.

I had noticed a mallard drake swimming close to shore, but if I drifted near, he would paddle away, watching me over his shoulder.  Something should have clued me, as he kept returning, and he was alone.  Right now, we have two consistent pairs of mallards in the yard.  The males keep a baleful eye on each other, lowering their heads and chasing if one trespasses some unseen boundary, too close to the other hen.  If one does catch the other, solid bites to the tail bring home the no-trespassing message.
Our pond/stream edge was bounded by a previous owner in cedar poles.  They're sunk in the shoreline so that only about eight to ten inches remain above water.  They're like a gap-tooth smile, with lots of spaces and crooks where the ducks can climb onshore.  But some of the crooks form a kind of half circle, and in one of these, a mallard hen had been trapped.
I finally saw her when I walked to the water's edge, just to enjoy the day.  Early bees were humming and the violet-green swallows were swooping and chittering above, catching bugs and checking out the nest boxes on the shoreline.  The hen was terrified.  She had stayed quiet in order to not be discovered by the human and now that I saw her, panic ensued.  She struggled mightily to get loose, but she had evidently flown into this small space, and now she couldn't open her wings to fly free.  Her eyes were huge and she was panting.  She was convinced the end was near.  I don't think there's anything more terrifying to wild things than being trapped and approached.
I spoke quietly to her, which didn't seem to impress her one bit.  From handling birds and critters in wildlife rehab, I knew that gentle and smooth was going to work best.  Minimize the trauma.  I stooped and gathered her, holding her wings to her body, and pulled her up from her trap.  Ducks really can't hurt you.  The toe claws can give a good scrape, so they're good to avoid.  And most wild things will poop when picked up, just out of panic.  So it's good to hold them away from your jeans and shoes.
I couldn't resist admiring her.  Mallard hens look pretty drab from a distance, but up close, those browns, beiges and duns are just beautiful.  Every feather perfectly crafted and finished with delicate stippling, dots and stripes. 
But she was panting and wild-eyed.  So after checking her for any skin breaks or bad scrapes, I turned her toward the water and gave her a gentle toss.  She flew, quacking loudly, to the middle of the pond where her anxious mate met her.  He circled her, head lowered, speaking softly.   She spent a good fifteen minutes carefully grooming away any trace of her entrapment, then the couple drifted downstream to spend a quiet afternoon in the sun.
I put a big rock in the area where she was trapped so that it wouldn't happen again.  If I hadn't seen her, she could have starved there.
Back to trimming and cleaning the garden, listening to the assorted calls and songs of the ducks, redwings, goldfinches and swallows.  Nothing can beat it.