Their lives go on

     Waking this morning to the news of yet another war started by humans, it was comforting to see a squadron of pelicans sailing overhead as if nothing had changed. 

In their lives, most likely, nothing has, though at least one  commentator has stated that Putin's aggression "changes everything" and that "we are in a different world now." It is probably more accurate to say that humans are in a different world now, a world in which the uneasy peace of the last thirty years seems to have ended and which more resembles the violent world that our species has created for far too much of its history. We have not generally been a nice species. 

     Here in Yucatan, the life cycle is beginning again. Birds, like this pair of common black hawks at Rio Lagartos, are engaging in courtship behavior,

Photo courtesy of Kate Fitzgerald

and indeed, this pair mated in full view of human observers not long after this photo was taken. Hawk life must go on regardless of what humans do. 

     On Isla Cerritos, magnificent frigatebirds are giving up their riding of the air currents for at least a year to nest and ensure the next generation of these genuinely magnificent creatures.

Photo courtesy of Kate Fitzgerald

     In a city park in Merida, groove-billed anis are flirting and occasionally holding still for pictures.

     On the beach behind my rental apartment, Yucatan's melipona bees are gathering pollen, benefiting both plants and young bees.

     The rest of life goes on, doing what it does, regardless of the geopolitical machinations of humans (though war and other human activities are unquestionably bad for life forms other than ours.) This part of the world is full of reminders of rulers and societies that warred with each other, created monuments to themselves, and then vanished into the forest for a century or three. 

Worth remembering.

Cemeteries

can be pretty lively places, especially when they adjoin a wooded ravine and the city has set aside a "growing, not mowing" zone in a currently-unused area. Marietta's Oak Grove Cemetery is known as a birding spot and there have been reports of a few early migrants on Facebook, so even though 2:00 PM is not generally a great time for birds, it was the warmest part of a sunny afternoon, so off I went.

Not much avian activity was noticeable in the lower portion of the cemetery, but unfamiliar bird calls were wafting down the hill. In need of exercise, up I went, and was rewarded with a life bird: a yellow-bellied sapsucker. Even though these little woodpeckers sometimes winter in southern Ohio, often pass through on migration, and leave signs of their sap-hunting on trees I have known, I had managed never to see the bird itself. This one I initially thought might be a hairy woodpecker working its way around a tree, but when it took off, its namesake yellow underparts revealed its true identity. I am not organized enough to keep a life list, but a new bird a few blocks from home is always a good thing.

The cemetery was also hosting its more usual denizens today. A blue jay was warning all and sundry of my presence while cardinals and chickadees were calling from various trees. A pair of tufted titmice may have been checking a tree for a nesting site, and robins were everywhere, as was their song. 

Heading home along the ravine, I spotted a red-bellied woodpecker, common in our area but not often at my home feeders. An unmistakable sign of spring was the gaggle of grackles hanging out in the evergreens along the sidewalk. And of course, there were scads of starlings, the local horde of which managed to consume the last suet cake in this winter's stash in less than twelve hours. 

The downy woodpeckers will have to make do with sunflower seed.

Obligatory signs-of-spring post

 After what felt like months of snow (but was actually just a couple of weeks), it finally finished melting, and today's temperature reached the low sixties (which of course will not last). But spring is definitely on its way, and it is not only the calendar that says so. 

The grackles are making their way back into the area, and while not everyone likes them (and a friend has so many at her place that the other birds can't get to the food she puts out), the big iridescent birds with yellow eyes are always a sign of spring for me. At least one pair of cardinals has been courting on the back patio, and the lawn strip maple was being checked out by what I recently learned is called a banditry of chickadees. Perhaps because someone decided their black caps resemble the masks of cartoon bank robbers? The bird chorus is also increasing as the boys start trying to impress the girls.

Technically, mosses grow all year here, but any time a plant blooms, I think spring, and the mosses on some nearby bricks are definitely blooming (or whatever it is that mosses do--I feel a need for study coming on). Their miniature worlds please me.

Of course, the plants we usually associate with spring are out there as well. Daffodils are poking up, and a neighbor's snowdrops are in full bloom. At least two kinds of asters are showing foliage, and the snow crocuses are the unmistakable announcement that spring is on its way.

Bring it on.

For the birds

This morning I was lucky enough to take part in a bird walk with CICY ornithologist Richard Feldman and a group of birding enthusiasts. Our intrepid group met at the botanical garden at 7:30 (late by birding standards, but quite sufficiently early for me, given travel from the beach to central Merida) and were treated to an introductory talk on resident and migratory birds before heading into the garden itself. I and at least one other member of our group had not known that well-fed birds in good condition can cross the Gulf of Mexico in less than 24 hours, a fact that gives me a whole other level of appreciation for the warblers and buntings that arrive in Ohio in May.

The Roger Orellana Botanical Garden, all six acres of it, is major bird habitat in a seriously deforested urban area, with 85 species confirmed here at different times. This dry forest, or selva seca, which makes up the central portion of the garden, is home to two motmot species, both of them showing off for us this morning.

Unfortunately, my point-and-shoot camera does not do well with greenish birds hanging out in leafy areas, even when said birds have definite turquoise eyebrows and most distinctive tails. This image from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology shows how gorgeous the turquoise-browed motmot, known to the Maya as the t'oh, really is.

• © Luke Seitz
• Macaulay Library ML43277571

Both species breed in this cave, found in the heart of the dry forest.

Our morning meander along the paths rewarded us with not only motmots but orioles (and a most glorious hanging nest), kiskadees, saltators, vireos, woodpeckers, flycatchers, blackbirds, two species of hummingbirds, a variety of doves, and of course gaggles of grackles. These handsome boys were showing off in Progreso, but you get the idea.

As the day warmed, the insects came out and swarmed the various trees that bloom this time of year. (Sorry, northern friends.) Seeing a dozen species of butterflies and lots of fat black bees working the late-winter flowers will definitely brighten a person's day. And a healthy insect population bodes well for the birds.

The good news in our time of so much bad environmental news: restoring even small sections of habitat can make a real difference for some of our feathered (and other) friends.

For the birds

The first robins showed up a few days ago, and judging by all the singing, twittering, and general avian sounds emanating from every tree, shrub, fence, wire, and gutter in the neighborhood, we should start seeing baby birds in the not-too-distant future. But before that can happen, the parents-to-be of most species need to build some nests, a process that requires building materials.

Most of our common songbirds (and quite a few others) use small twigs and dried grass as the basis for their nests, but such things are in short supply in overly-manicured neighborhoods. Some humans try to compensate by leaving materials such as pet hair, dryer lint, and short pieces of yarn or twine where birds can find them, but the Cornell Lab of Ornithology advises against these items. What our birds need is more of this.

If you have managed to avoid completing your fall (ha!) yard cleanup, now is a good time to cut those clumps of dead grass and leftover plant stems and use them to create an avian Home Depot.  These in-demand items can be placed in suet cages and hung in likely spots, or just left in piles on the ground if no neighbors object. They will be put to good use.

Once the babies arrive, they will need food, which generally means caterpillars or small insects, with baby hummingbirds being particularly fond of nearly-microscopic flies and gnats. The average brood of baby chickadees will need anywhere from 6000-9000 caterpillars or other insect larvae before they can leave the nest, with other species being similarly voracious. Multiply that number by the number of bird pairs in your area, and the need for insect-friendly habitat becomes obvious.

This planting is only one example of an insect- (and therefore bird-) friendly flowerbed: native plants with landing pads, nectar, pollen, and eventually lots of seeds.

Put something like this near trees and shrubs, and your yard is going to make the birds and the bees very happy.

Underestimating meadows

When most people think of dramatic landscapes, mountains or deep forests probably come to mind. A few may envision the wide-open spaces of the midwestern prairie, but I doubt that many people automatically get excited about the smaller patches of grassland we call meadows. (A young relative once referred to our meadow planting as "a weed bed.") A healthy meadow, however, is a thing of subtle beauty and, more importantly, a small-scale biodiversity hotspot.

This meadow, part of Wildwood Preserve in Toledo, was livelier this morning than either the trail through the floodplain forest or the Window on Wildlife this park uses to lure birds and other creatures close enough for easy observation. Because the bur oak on the edge of the meadow is one of my favorite trees, I generally take advantage of a well-placed bench to sit and commune with this old tree that I sometimes call the Prairie Sentinel (even though this area is not technically prairie as it is not dominated by tall warm-season grasses).

The most noticeable creatures were the goldfinches that seemed to be alighting in droves on every patch of thistle. This particular plant,

which looked perfectly ordinary to my human eyes, at one point had four male goldfinches (and probably a female or two that I did not see, seated as I was some distance away) darting in and out, as well as two hummingbirds (at the same time--not typical behavior for these aggressively territorial little birds), bees of various species, and several hummingbird moths.

The sea of goldenrod (which actually contained at least three species of Solidago) was providing hospitality to hordes of monarch butterflies, tanking up before their long migration to a Mexican forest they have never seen. Sulfurs, whites, and skippers were abundant, and one lovely ailanthus webworm moth was hanging out right next to the trail.

Yes, that little creature is a moth, and its caterpillars eat the ironically-named tree of heaven, so even though the extension of its range (formerly the American tropics from South Florida to Costa Rica) may be a troubling sign, any insect that will eat a noxious weed of a tree is in my estimation a good bug.

Goldenrod was not the only flower blooming today. Ironweed was going strong, accompanied by asters just starting to bud, a few liatris hanging on, and numbers of smaller, more subtle blooms interspersed among the dominant yellow. And while they were not noticeable, the grasses were there, sending their roots down several feet into the soil and helping to create the soil matrix that is the basis for all other terrestrial life. Some bird species require landscapes like this one, nesting on the ground and depending on the thick vegetation to protect their young and provide the insects that will feed them. Even birds we normally associate with trees make use of grasslands. Today, this scruffy cardinal (either molting or a particularly unfortunate adolescent male just getting his adult coloration) spent a good bit of time calling from the shrub dogwoods that form part of the edge between Wildwood's meadow and forest areas, then more time investigating the seed selection in the meadow plants.

Meadows may not get much press as exciting places to visit, but they should not be underestimated. Spending a little time in a meadow reveals much more than is visible at first glance.

A royal bird

I had intended to write about the great kiskadee, but a review of my photos revealed that the only decent shot of an MYB (Mid-sized Yellow Bird, the Yucatan equivalent of the LBB, or Little Brown Bird) was of a tropical kingbird.

These handsome flycatchers are almost as common here in the coastal Yucatan as chickadees are in Ohio, since their preferred habitat is open woodland, meaning that they do well in towns with trees. In this neighborhood, they are often found perched on utility wires, looking for the insects that are their primary food. (There is a reason they are called flycatchers.) Since the climate here is definitely tropical, insects are plentiful, as are insectivorous birds. The fact that these hungry little songbirds are also pretty and fun to watch is a plus.

Some good news for kingbirds: human-induced landscape changes (i.e. less dense forest and more trees scattered among human habitations) have allowed these birds to expand their range and increase their numbers. The International Union for the Conservation of Nature lists them as a Species of Least Concern. They venture into only a few parts of the US, though, so I will just have to enjoy them while I'm here.

Feeder visitors

For someone used to having a variety of birdfeeders, having to cut back has been frustrating, especially since the arboretum across the street attracts so many birds. Our in-town neighborhood is full of outdoor cats, and as fond as I am of our three felines, invasive, non-native predators on the loose are a Very Bad Thing. Unless one has a barn in need of rodent control, all specimens of felis domesticus should be kept indoors as they really do not belong on this continent. I also do not like having to collect the corpses of the cats that periodically get run over in front of our house. (Rant over. On to the actual subject of the post.)

Being unwilling to sponsor the neighborhood Hunt Club any longer, I sadly took down our birdfeeders. Fortunately, we do have a small walled patio where I was able to install one pole in a large tub that held annuals over the summer and hang two mesh sunflower feeders. Birds, not being birdbrains in the pejorative sense of that term, have found their way to the free food. Over the last couple of days, we have had

• a pair of white-breasted nuthatches
• chickadees
• titmice
• house finches
• cardinals
• juncos
• at least one goldfinch
• house sparrows (who have not gotten the memo that they don't like sunflower seeds)

and of course, squirrels.

They're back, 2017 version

Yesterday brought the year's first dark-eyed junco, perched on the now-bare rose of Sharon hedge outside the dining room. The camera was of course nowhere to be found, but I suspect that most people in the lower 48 are familiar with snowbirds of the non-human variety. In case you aren't, here is a shot of one from the Celebrate Urban Birds section of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology website.

These handsome little sparrows spend their summers in the northwoods of Canada, then head south for the winter. While some of the humans in our part of the world might beg to differ (especially when snow is falling, as it is at the moment), significant numbers of juncos think of Ohio as the South. The junco is not the flashiest of birds, but for me, it is one of the surest signs of winter, just as the first patch of bright yellow on a goldfinch is a sure sign of the approach of summer.

Back before calendars, Google or otherwise, phenomena like these helped humans mark the seasons.

Elegant but deadly

This morning brought the opportunity for a quick jaunt along the walkway at the Williamstown Wetland, a jaunt that revealed what may be the apex predator of the park: the great blue heron. Everything about this bird is geared toward killing.

Large as it is, the great blue can almost disappear when still, its muted colors blending with those of the reflected vegetation.
With that long neck, it can reach underwater at speeds too great for most fish to escape, and that long bill can impale even small mammals.

This particular heron caught at least three fish in the few minutes that I observed it, and the wetland's other birds stayed well away from the heron's hunting spot. (I do understand that alligators sometimes eat herons, but reptiles of that size are blessedly rare in West Virginia.)

Watching a great blue as it goes about its deadly business, it is easy to see this elegant creature as the descendant of dinosaurs. It would not have surprised me to see a velociraptor rise out of the swamp grasses--except that dinosaurs are in short supply in the parking lots of local restaurants like the one adjoining our primeval-looking wetland.

Back again

They're here. A glance out the window this morning revealed several of what I at first thought were starlings, but something wasn't quite right: these birds' bodies were too elongated, and the walk was different. A moment's thought (I being on only my first cup of coffee) clarified the situation: the grackles are back from wherever they spend the winter, and a flock/horde/cackle of them had returned to Chipmunk Ridge, where they were pecking around in the mulch and among the dried grasses. Luckily for them and the neighborhood robins, yesterday I broke out the string trimmer and had at the meadow and savannah gardens, leaving plenty of nesting material scattered about.

Spring has officially sprung.

The benefits of messiness

It's fortunate for me that we have tolerant neighbors (referring specifically to neighborhood humans). I do try to keep the front yard up to reasonably civilized standards--easier to do since Piet Oudolf and James Van Sweden made ornamental grasses and seed heads not only respectable but trendy in some circles--but I am about as fond of raking leaves as I am of mowing grass or trimming yew hedges: that is, not at all. As a result, most of the front-yard leaves (of which there aren't many, as that's the sunny side of the lot) get raked under the rhododendron or out to the compost pile, but this year the back has not been raked.

There are reasons for this other than my general laziness. For one, we still have a scraggly, unattractive turfgrass mix left from the previous owner's attempt to grow lawn on the back slope, and the sooner it dies, the happier I will be. Turfgrasses do not like being smothered in leaves, so my hope is that we can accelerate the process of making the back yard more interesting.

Second, most of our leaves (with the exception of those from the neighbor's sycamore) come from oak or maple trees, trees which, according to entomologist Douglas Tallamy, attract more lepidoptera than almost any other plants (over 500 species!).  This means that a good percentage of those leaves are likely to contain butterfly eggs, eggs that will not hatch if we put their host leaves in plastic bags and send them to a landfill. The eggs might survive mowing the leaves so that they break down faster, but why risk the loss of next year's hairstreaks and duskywings?

Third, leaf litter has a number of important functions, especially in forest ecosystems (though our back quarter-acre hardly qualifies as "forest"). The spring wildflowers of the eastern woodlands require a rich soil in which nutrients break down slowly, and allowing leaves to decompose at their own pace is one of the best ways to create that soil. (One of my fantasies is to have soil that will support trilliums, which right now our yellow clay will not--but maybe in twenty years or so....) Some insects overwinter in leaf litter, including mourning cloak butterflies, wooly bear caterpillars, hummingbird moths, and certain bumblebee queens. I've never seen an amphibian in our yard, but if we ever get tree frogs, they prefer to spend the winter under leaves. This year, we have had brown thrashers thrashing in the leaf litter under the few remaining backyard yews (and despite my love for butterflies, I do not begrudge our thrashers anything they can find to eat).

My messiness, I must confess, extends to not whacking things back as early as many people do, but sometimes that hesitation is rewarded. We have birds feeding on seedheads in the meadow garden, and the wild tangle of our in-need-of-pruning lonicera sempervirens has become a favorite perch for wrens and juncos. The specimen on the compost area fence attracted the first fox sparrow I had ever seen.

The moral of the story: one species' mess is another species' home sweet home.

A meditation on noise

Walking around nearby residential neighborhoods yesterday, I was stunned by how noisy Parkersburg is. Maybe because winter has been so long and so cold that being outside for any length of time has been difficult, I hadn’t processed what life in an urban (well, okay, maybe semi-urban) environment is like. Our immediate neighborhood (where I spend most of my alone-outside time) isn’t on the direct route to anywhere except two schools, and the traffic there is confined to particular hours of the day. We get periodic traffic noise, but the noise is so periodic that it’s noticeable, not the norm. Working in the back yard, I can actually hear the last of the oak leaves rattling on the tree whenever the wind blows.

Visually, the neighborhoods where I walked yesterday are mid-American paradise: blocks of mostly smallish mid-century houses, set back from the street with a reasonable number of trees and shrubs giving living interest to the scene. This time of year, squirrels are everywhere, and the birds are getting active. But what struck me was the noise: the constant hum of cars, trucks making deliveries to Kroger, several blocks away, the incessant muffled roar from the interstate, over a mile distant. For a while it was hard to block out the traffic sounds to concentrate on anything else, a shame on a day as beautiful as yesterday was. My mood began spiraling into serious annoyance at the constant overwhelming presence of so many unseen motor vehicles. There seemed no escape from the omnipresent noise pollution.

Then, there it was: birdsong to “rinse and wring the ear,” as Hopkins said, sound so piercingly beautiful that it made all other noises temporarily meaningless. The song came from a tree in front of a small nondescript house on the busiest street on yesterday’s route: a wren, perched high and hurling repeated, joyous-sounding notes out over the neighborhood. I had to stop, and when I did, my ear focused on other sounds despite the cars going past only a few feet away: crows nearby, calling to each other, the buzz of chickadees not too far away, assorted unidentifiable (to me) chirps, twitters, and burbles. The realization of so many other lives being carried on, seemingly unbothered by all our busyness, brought joy.

My task for the upcoming spring break is to listen for the sounds of the world, the ones that exist apart from and underneath the machine noises that make up so much of the human world.