Flocks of robins are appearing, the sapsuckers have started tap-tapping on the trees, and shorebirds are in full swing. Where there are large flocks of small birds, there will be raptors.
A Northern Harrier drifts over the field and a Sharp-shinned Hawk almost touches the long grass as it skims over in stealth mode. The harrier sways as though a light breeze tilts it gently from side to side. It’s almost kite-like, meant to fool its innocent prey. Harriers are mostly mice-eaters. These are thin times for them as the weather hovers between winter and spring. It’s tough out there. Some of the birds have to resort to eating beach flies, but great swaths of seaweed have been washed away. Everyone waits for the tide to fall; it’s almost a guarantee that the intertidal will have dropped something for lunch as the cold east-northeasters continue to blow and winter rains have moved to Los Angeles.
A Eurasian Collared Dove calls. Their numbers are in decline. A Goshawk and a rare Cooper’s Hawk take them out one by one. The gos wintered over in town and is trimming the dove numbers. Sad for the doves — they are pretty and their ‘coo-coo’ is evocative of my childhood in Ireland. Not everyone likes them, some find their noise disruptive. We might not have them for much longer as the hawks are taking a toll.
Starlings now — nothing seems to faze them. Their numbers remain steadily high. They have their own protective ways of surviving. Strength in numbers is their tactic. When attacked, the flocks becomes one large monster-shaped bird and scare everything off.
A Song Sparrow sings. So does a Pacific Wren. The smallest bird with the longest song. They are not quite in gear yet — some of their songs sound as though they are practicing for the big spring concert. They haven’t really started to belt it out from the dark forest, but they are lively and fun. Birds are our friends. They have lived with us from time immemorial and are known as messengers of the gods. They give warnings and portents and all sorts of things. Pigeons carried messages from here to there in recent wars and were often shot for their work. A sense of history is important regarding how we used, and continue to (ab)use, the wild world for our own gain. Sigh.
A beautiful bird appeared in the bright morning sun this week. It flew up ahead of a small flock of geese and landed in a low spruce where it shone like a jewel. Four others joined it and they all jinked and flitted from tree to tree. They could have been Flame-coloured Tanagers from the mountains of Mexico but no – they were White-winged Crossbills.
“They’re first-year male birds because of their orangey-yellow,” said Peter. “If they were adults they’d be red.” They were lovely and so is the Cedar Waxwing that just popped up from the bush. It’s still here. So is the Peregrine Falcon that just swept into the huge spruce outside our window.
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