So long, farewell little juncos!

It is nearly time to bid farewell to our dark-eyed junco (Junco hyemalis) friends as they begin their journey back to the breeding grounds in the coniferous woodlands of Canada.
  
Dark-eyed juncos are found across nearly the entire continental U.S. in the winter, a hardy and welcome visitor as most of our summer breeding birds head south for warmer climes. In the mountainous regions in Appalachia and in the west they reside year-round, while in the plains and south they stay only for the winter. Although I can sympathize with their discomfort with summer heat and humidity, I am not sure I am tough enough to consider Iowa a pleasant winter retreat.

These dapper little birds can show quite a bit of color variation in the west, but around here they are mostly distinguished by a formal-looking dark gray hood and cape (which makes for an elegant display against a backdrop of sparkling white snow), with a bright white belly and pale pinkish bill.

Dark-eyed juncos are common winter visitors to birdfeeders, often seen scratching and hopping about on the ground in search of fallen seed. When not enjoying a buffet laid out by humans, they can be found snacking on seeds of grasses and weeds throughout the winter. Fortunately for us, they tend to stay near the ground or on lower branches, easy to observe along with mourning doves, sparrows and other winter feeder hangabouts.

Their song is often described a a "metallic trill"; they also emit buzzy calls and squeaks, and alarm "chips" that sound like exasperated tsks. They are not the most melodious singers (who can compete with cardinals on a clear, cold winter morning?) but their subtle notes round out the symphony of winter.

Bon voyage, little friends. Thank you for brightening our winters with your cheerful antics!

 Further reading:

• All About Birds (Cornell Lab of Ornithology)
• Audubon Field Guide

 

A Beautiful Day. A Strange Sight.

What a glorious day! With the birds singing and the rising orb in the east promising an unseasonably warm February day, I headed to the Greenway to early in hopes of avoiding the inevitable crowds that would be lured by the warm sun later.

The birds were cooperative, with bluejays and song sparrows joining cardinals in a morning chorus (the bluejays' whining cries cutting through like a car horn amid the clear whistles and trills of the more melodious singers, though nobody seemed to mind). A careful tap...tap...taptap  high up in a treetop draws the eye to a little downy woodpecker, black-jacketed with an understated flash of crimson on the back of its head.

From the south rise the raucous honks of geese as they take wing out of the wetlands and cross the sky in a sloppy V heading north. The birds seem to be enjoying the promise of the day as much as the humans.

Turning towards home, I glance at the motionless "Birds in Flight" sculpture. What--? Did somebody toss a stick up there? Why in the world...? That just...that doesn't look right.

A closer look with the camera's zoom reveals the gruesome truth. A foot...two feet...attached to furry brown legs dangling over the edge of the flattened "bird." I circle around to the other side but see nothing more. Some raptor's meal, abandoned atop a convenient dinner table. Meanwhile, house sparrows and dark-eyed juncos frolic and chatter just below.

You never know what you will see when you visit the Sycamore Greenway. The mundane, the sublime, the downright bizarre. It's what keeps me coming back.

The Successful House Sparrow

House sparrows among the cattails on the Greenway

I know, I shouldn't like house sparrows (Passer domesticus). And I certainly shouldn't toss them bits of tortilla from the patio at Chipotle (it's not good for them, and I'm sure Chipotle doesn't appreciate it either).

As part of the avian trifecta of ubiquitous urban non-natives (alongside starlings and rock doves/pigeons), they are one of the most common birds you will find in landscapes modified by humans. These European natives were originally brought to the U.S. in the middle of the 19th century (and identified as pests shortly thereafter), and have since spread over nearly all of North America.

They are reviled for their gluttonous behavior at bird feeders, and for their habit of evicting or taking over nesting spots from native cavity nesters like Eastern bluebirds, woodpeckers, and tree swallows. They may also build nests in inconvenient (for humans) places like house vents or perhaps among the letters of your local Hy-Vee sign.

Male house sparrow

 With their gray caps and black bibs (more prominent during breeding season), the males really are cute little birds and rather distinctive as sparrows go. The females, I confess, I can't tell apart from any of the other "little brown jobbies" that may frequent the area; I rely on proximity to the males together with a larger size for tentative ID, but I am not confident enough to declare any individual female a house sparrow with authority.

Because of their close proximity to humans, flocks of house sparrows offer an interesting opportunity to study bird behavior. There is a hierarchy, with more dominant males generally showing larger black bibs on their chests. Courtship and dominance displays can be observed among individuals in a group at a backyard feeder. They are year-round residents in Iowa and will happily consume cheap millet seed mixes.

A female (? I assume) house sparrow

I find it hard to condemn these scrappy birds for the sin of being adapted to live closely with humans. The harm they inflict on other "desirable" species pales in comparison to the harm humans have done in remaking the landscape for our own profit and convenience. The sparrows, at least, are unaware of the damage their behavior causes. We have no such excuse. 






Resources/Further reading:

• House Sparrow History 
• The Story of the Most Common Bird in the World
• All About Birds - House Sparrow

A Winter Discontent

I have to admit, it's getting rather difficult to find pretty things on the Greenway lately. Everything is shades of washed-out brown, with dry stems swept to the ground by wind, snow and rain. Even the birds are drably colored (the occasional cardinal notwithstanding): chickadees and juncos in shades of gray and white, Canada geese in black and tan, winter goldfinches in a dirty olive.

The verdant leaves and bright flowers are long gone. The most vivid colors at the moment, sadly, seem to be the poo bags tossed into the Greenway basins and tree branches by thoughtless dog owners. It is a time ripe for despair, long months of cold winter ahead before the first brave botanical pioneers reappear in spring.

It helps to remind myself that what was, will be again. Spring follows winter as inevitably as day follows night. I look out over the seemingly lifeless land and remember the waves of goldenrod not too long ago, and the butterfly weed before that.

I think of the millions of seeds produced on the Greenway last summer, and wonder how many found their way to a hospitable place where they can put down roots and spend coming years blooming and producing seeds of their own. I imagine roots below even now storing energy and preparing for the day the sun's rays warm the ground and lengthen the days enough to prompt the first tender shoot to burst through crumbling soil.

Until then, I learn to, if not relish the crisp air freezing my eyeballs in the pre-dawn gloom, at least appreciate the contrast a few short months can make. To see the tiny shards of frost on the grass glittering in the moonlight and realize such beauty would be impossible in the comfort of summer.