This Backyard Birder column appeared in the Ledger 20 years ago almost to the day. It was reworked a bit, and Francie notes that backyard sparrow diversity has decreased over the two decades, and television has been replaced by computers and the Internet as lures that keep us indoors.
Robert Frost ended a short poem on nature and life with the line, “Nothing gold can stay.” October ends after delivering an abundance of golden fall days that can make us regret the indoor demands on our lives.
Stark November is at the doorstep now. We reacquaint ourselves with ridgelines visible again through bare trees, and with stonewalls visible again along roadsides and old boundaries and field edge — reminders of those who worked the land before cars and office jobs and television gave us our indoor tendencies.
This time of year I can be tempted by complaint as daylight and warmth and birds head south. When tempted by complaint, it’s best to take a walk, the kind of wandering walk that birders allow themselves. Before setting out on just such a wander, I scatter seed under the birdfeeders and close the chicken coop door to keep the old hens from their usual birdseed breakfast.
Sparrows, the majority bird of late October and early November, are confirmed ground feeders. I spread the seed to lure them in. Each spring and fall a few uncommon sparrow types pass through the area. Most surprising are the white-crowned sparrows whose bold white dome-heads are striped with equally bold black lines. More subtle are the savannah sparrows who look quite sparrow-generic other than the hint of yellow in front of each eye. The other day I stirred up some vesper sparrows, pale as sparrows go, identifiable by the white tail-edgings that flash when they fly.
The big, bold fox sparrow reliably bypasses our yard for the yards of others.
This is the in-between time of year when birdfeeders are ignored for the seeds and berries and bugs available naturally. Most birds raise their young in private, independent of our public seed offerings, feeding high-protein insects to their nestlings. We don’t see chickadees at our feeders all summer long. I respect their wild ways as they teach their young to forage naturally.
Soon Mount Monadnock will be frosty white and chickadees will return to backyard birdfeeders.
The chickens pace and squawk in their confinement as I pass them on my wandering walk out back. The usual white-throated sparrows aren’t to be found alongside the far field in the goldenrod and aster edge they favor. A clump of ferns, limp, brown and sodden from all the rain, give off a pungent, healthy fall smell — nature’s true aromatherapy, fresh and firsthand.
I don’t find many birds. Mostly it’s airborne leaves that catch the eye. A blue jay shows up as bright counterpoint to the subdued palette of late fall. Most of our wintering birds confine themselves to variations on black and white. Blue jays further break the winter rules by continuing their raucous talk while the song-making of other birds atrophies until sparked again by spring’s returning light.
Two crow voices join the jays. I watch for the third crow. Years back, on a frozen-to-the-core December day, a birding pal and I watched a trio of crows fly low across Mud Pond in Dublin. Bill Elliott said he thought it interesting that crows travel as trios. Sure enough, ever since, just about all I have seen is crows three in a row unless it’s a crow convention, on the way to or from a winter roost.
Often a trio reminds me of Bill.
The white-throated sparrows show up after all, higher up the hillside in another dried goldenrod and blackberry bramble patch. Their gentle “seep” contact notes mix with the more abrupt, percussive notes of dark-eyed juncos. The two are fellow-travelers this time of year, close members in the sparrow family tree as well.
A scolding chickadee comes near to investigate my presence while the sparrows remain invisible, as is their way. Landing on the old, weathered stonewall, the chickadee is a surprisingly perfect match for the mix of blue/green lichen and granite gray.
I pause awhile to watch chickadee and lichen and granite through binoculars, focused sharp. I take a mental picture to carry home with me as reminder that we really don’t need much more than a chickadee on an old stonewall to get through the winter. As part of a natural cycle, winter gives balance to the wonderful distractions, excesses and energies of summer, and challenges us to sharpen our skills of observation and appreciation.
In another short poem, Robert Frost captured winter’s potential: “The way a crow / Shook down on me / The dust of snow / From a hemlock tree / Has given my heart / A change of mood / And saved some part / Of a day I had rued.”