When it’s as cold outside as this morning, -6°, the birds swarm the feeding stations. They’ve been enduring the wind and chill all night and are anxious, even desperate, to replenish their energy. I understand they’ve been with us for millions of years and are quite capable of surviving on their own. Yet over the years I feel a connection with “my” birds and think they’ve come to rely and expect support in harsh times. I know them and am accustomed to their habits and actions. The crows are almost always the first ones at the feeders. Some fearless smaller birds, like the chickadees, may zip in and out around them but the crows are the first group to settle in. If I’m late they let me know with a chorus of caws and a phalanx of fixed stares. This morning was different. The crows refused to come in for seed, suet or water. They gathered and perched in the branches of the tall trees that make up the western windbreak closest to the house in groups of two or three. They called out to one another over the noise of the wind and bent their heads against the stinging clouds of crystallized snow being carried across the pasture sparkling in the bright sunlight. Still they showed no inclination they were willing to come in. Even the usual smaller birds were absent. I could spot a few sheltering in the low evergreens by the well house adjacent to the feeder. A flash of bright white caught my attention. Tucked against the trunk of the nearest sugar maple, partially concealed at the base of some smaller radiating branches, sat a hawk cleaning his feathers and basking in the warm sunrise. At the trees base I noticed that some clusters of downy feathers, some stained with blood, were dispersing in the wind. The scattered longer white tipped, black streaked, bluish feathers helped identify the victim as a blue jay. In the country this happens when you establish feeding patterns. A predator will take notice of all the activity and move in. The crows are wise. They see everything and alert the others to the danger. I don’t begrudge the hawk his meal. It’s the cycle of life, some must die that others live. I’m glad he didn’t score a crow, I along with the family group would mourn that loss. I feed the birds and on occasion I inadvertently feed the birds to the birds. A few minutes later the hawk flew off. I watched him fight the wind and vanish into the bare trees up on the mountainside. Minutes later the feeder was busy, the mornings carnage forgotten, life goes on. My only regret is that the red squirrel living in my garage survived. Maybe next time?
Posted on: Thu, 08 Jan 2015 15:32:16 +0000
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