Click-click-click-click-click!

Found the mystery bluebird nest of last post, but not before days of watching Sir Blue work overtime chasing away squirrels. He and his girlfriend have settled in the little house on the pine trunk afterall.  I was dead wrong about their having borrowed the squirrel's nest.

She is sitting on eggs now and only comes out occasionally, looking bedraggled and small. Is it the stress of growing and laying eggs that has taken such toll on her formerly robust appearance? Sometimes she sits on the doorstep and looks out for long periods of time. Sometimes she flies to a cherry branch for a short spell away from the nest. Imagine how boring, her long ordeal. I wonder if our early summer temperatures (93F/34C degrees yesterday) will affect egg-hatching.  Seems like it might be good for eggs, but bad for mama. The box is in the shade most of the day, but it probably gets hot in there. I'd want some fresh air, too.

 No swing-side observations for awhile because the top of the swing is Sir Blue's post of choice this go-round.  Ever watchful, he sits long and alert on a variety of nearby perches, but most often on the swing.

 I've grown so fond of this little blue daddy for his noble vigilance, I call sweet words of encouragement to him from afar. Watching his valiant safeguarding of his progeny is Moe's and my newest evening entertainment from the deck. He wows us with his protective aeronautics. 

He begins each aggressive chase with a divebomb at the squirrel's head, then follows in hot pursuit after its bushy tail, till the fellow is run off.  His chasing flight is accompanied by a rapid clicking sound. I can't tell if it comes from his wings or beak or throat, but I'm thinking it's his wing feathers hitting against each other. However he clicks, it's an effective defense against squirrels four times his size. They don't stick around to argue, but they always come back.

 I don't think herbivorous squirrels pose much danger to a bluebird nest, unless they've buried nuts in there, but what Sir Blue doesn't understand is that the pinetree is one of their most direct and frequent routes to the playground in the canopy. It's going to be a long and arduous nesting round for Sir, however self-imposed.  

If the first day of divebombing was egg-laying day, and it takes two weeks to hatch, we should have new baby blues by the middle of next week, June 5th or 6th. dkm

Go Bluebirds!

Drama in the cherry tree.  Who knew bluebirds would attack a squirrel?

Earlier observations had given me the impression bluebirds are as meek as they are beautiful. They allowed a tiny gregarious house wren to run them out of their chosen nesting box. They come to the deck feeder only when no others are there and leave the instant another approaches. He offers a quiet murmur of a song—never pretentious or arrogant—more complacent, even timid. They seem the model for quiet contemplation when they sit long on a low branch watching for worms in the grass.

Not this morning. Again and again Sir Blue came at the squirrel, preventing its progress along a branch in the cherry tree. When the squirrel didn't give up, Madame Blue joined in the aggressive flutter and dive-bombing act until the squirrel retreated down the trunk.

I knew the Blues had a nest nearby because he's been ever-present in the yard recently, busy in the relentless search for food. I've guessed she is sitting on eggs, and he's feeding her, but I couldn't tell where.

Not long ago they gave me hope when they investigated the two corner nesting boxes nailed to pinetree trunks in the upper yard near the house. One of those pines stands right next to the cherry in question, but I supposed the Blues chose a more hidden spot when I saw no more activity there.  Nobody has nested in those old boxes for years, I think because the squirrels have chewed the holes too large to be safe, but I don't know for sure. The last nesters were a family of tufted titmice several years ago.




This morning's repeated attacks on the squirrel sent me in search through the cherry tree and environs.  I could find only this messy collection of leaves and sticks. I thought it belonged to a squirrel, but other than the empty birdhouse on the pinetree, there could be no other place.

  Have my good and gentle bluebirds purloined a squirrels's nest? Wahoo! This will be fun to watch.  dkm

Moment of Clarity

Every now and then, in the ongoing attempt at the practice of mindfulness, one is graced with a visionary flash of enlightenment incomparable in character. One never knows how or when it will arrive. The only certainty is that such a moment can not be predicted.  One came to me a few evenings ago when our good friend Sheila, about whom I've written before, and who is my model and mentor in the spiritual practice of genuine mindfulness, joined Moe and me on the deck overlooking the backyard.

It was the end of the week. We brushed off the chairs. We relaxed with an appetizer and good beverages of choice to the tune of evening birdsong. We exclaimed over a steady stream of feathered species at the feeder and in the trees, including the beautiful and dignified pair of bluebirds I knew to be actively nesting somewhere in the vicinity, though I hadn't yet discovered where.  

Squirrels entertained us by leaping and marching boldly past to clean up the seed chaff on the floor of the deck under the feeder, confident we would do them no harm.

               

The evening was mild, the scene was peaceful. Dusk folded around us and we chose to move inside for dinner. We stepped across the threshold into the kitchen. Then came the moment of truth that is the topic of this post. With all the elegance of the successful trial attorney that she is, Sheila turned to me and said, "Debby, your birding hobby is an admirable one, but are you aware that your deck is covered with shit?"

:-(

poo of squirrel

Well, yes, there is that. dkm

Hot Sun / Cold Rain

A Robert Frost poem surfaced today, unbidden, from somewhere deep in my first-grade-teacher memory.  I was thinking about how, in my ignorance (innocence?), I evicted that queen bumblebee from her nest by leaving it in the hot sun, a few posts back, and then about  Julie Zickefoose's story of how she cares for her nestlings in cold rainy weather. Y'all, she makes “omelettes” for them.  Don't take my word for it. Read it yourself. The ends to which JZ goes for her baby birds is a remarkable story. 

These things were moiling I guess, because somehow I found myself leafing through poetry books for a verse I thought was called “The Exposed Nest.”  Found it, wonder of wonders. Too bad RF didn't know about JZ's recipe for baby bird omelette.

The poem is exquisite, full of just-right turns of phrase.  I have loved it in years past. Today it made my throat catch.  And just now, typing the words made me "go all soppy," to quote the lovely New Zealand blogger, Jane Robertson. 

I like to think Frost’s mother-bird did come back and was filled with gratitude. dkm

The Exposed Nest

You were forever finding some new play.

So when I saw you down on hands and knees

In the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay,

Trying, I thought, to set it up on end,

I went to show you how to make it stay,

If that was your idea, against the breeze,

And, if you asked me, even help pretend

To make it root again and grow afresh.

But 'twas no make-believe with you today,

Nor was the grass itself your real concern,

Though I found your hand full of wilted fern,

Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clover.

'Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground

The cutter-bar had just gone champing over

(Miraculously without tasting flesh)

And left defenseless to the heat and light.

You wanted to restore them to their right

Of something interposed between their sight

And too much world at once—could means be found.

The way the nest-full every time we stirred

Stood up to us as to a mother-bird

Whose coming home has been too long deferred,

Made me ask would the mother-bird return

And care for them in such a change of scene

And might our meddling make her more afraid.

That was a thing we could not wait to learn.

We saw the risk we took in doing good,

But dared not spare to do the best we could

Though harm should come of it; so built the screen

You had begun, and gave them back their shade.

All this to prove we cared. Why is there then

No more to tell? We turned to other things.

I haven't in my memory—have you?—

Of ever coming to the place again

To see if the birds lived the first night through,

And so at last to learn to use their wings.

                                                                                                       -Robert Frost

Ground Exercises

Oh frabjous day, calooh, callay, the baby squirrels have come out of their nests.  There is nothing quite like the crazed frenzy of a  baby squirrel running amok in the yard.  The first time I witnessed it, I thought something was dreadfully wrong, (see very first blogpost in the sidebar archives, but don't judge me by my naive ranting---since then I've learned they fledge twice a year, spring and fall, so that poor little thing was a September fledgling). Now I've seen it often enough to know it is what newly fledged squirrels do when they discover their amazing strength and agility. Imagine the exhilaration of finding a whole new world outside the confines of a deep nest.

Today's little guy had a small stick about the size of a pencil, all covered in green lichen, with which he rolled and tumbled and played so vigorously it's a wonder he didn't exhaust himself. Sometimes he would stop long enough to nibble along the stick, as if eating an ear of corn, then suddenly return to his frenzied antics, wildly leaping and twisting into the air like a crazed gymnast. Sometimes he'd settle on his haunches perfectly still, then leap a vertical 18 inches into the air, only to land straight back down on his haunches like he'd never left the ground.  Then he'd return to tumbling around his stick, tearing partway up the tree trunk and back down to attack his stick again. How cute and white, his upturned belly when he landed on his back.  How giant and furry his tail, seeming way too big for his tiny self. Of course, he's gone by the time I get back with a camera.

More than newfound freedom, these are probably ground exercises, for the purpose of developing the life skills needed to leap safely through tree branches at high altitudes.

Do your exercises well, little squirrel.  You're going to need all the speed and agility you can get when Moe runs you off the deck with his tennis racket. dkm

David and Goliath

What are the odds of another bird and bee story so close on the heels of the last one?  Probably pretty high, considering the season, but I like this one.

My giant of a husband Moe (6'4", 280#), wages constant war with the carpenter bees on our back deck. Because I'm not fond of harmful insecticides, he keeps an old tennis racket handy to whack at the bees when we're supposedly relaxing with a nice glass of wine overlooking the backyard in the evenings.  The ongoing battle of Moe vs the carpenter bees is one of my greatest sources of entertainment.  It's a regular David and Goliath story. And as in the original version, David keeps winning.

Perhaps Moe will be pleased when I tell him about the well-equipped stranger who came to his assistance today.  I had just returned from morning yoga practice with my yayas when I heard the telltale ratatat of woodpecker just outside the bedroom door that opens onto the deck.  I assumed it was the red bellied friend that often comes to the feeder.

But no! Even without glasses I could tell by the size and color it was a pileated woodpecker hard at work on the banister. He stayed long enough for me to find glasses and phone. These shots had to be snapped through the glass, since opening the door would have scared the fellow off.  Hence, they're blurry.  Still, how thrilling, the gift of a pileated woodpecker. Not to mention funny. Wish I had thought to make a video of this guy.  I'm not sure he knew what to make of the bee that kept buzzing around his head.

And I don't know if Moe will be more grateful for the eviction of the bee or upset with the further damage done to the banister, but I was over the moon at the opportunity to observe a pileated woodpecker going eye-to-eye with a carpenter bee a dozen feet from where I stood. dkm

The Birds and the Bees

Pukeko G gets the honors for guessing first what caused my chickadees to abandon house and home. It was a buzzing bumblebee nest deep inside the chickadee nest.  The answer was slowly revealed, and got more surprising by the day as I watched, read, and learned. I originally thought Madame Chickadee had already laid her eggs, but when she abandoned the nest, I assumed she had gone somewhere else to lay them. I read online that chickadees often build several nests as back-up, and it is not unusual for them to move if they have to. So I sent them my best wishes for finding a good place in time for the coming of the eggs, happy in the hope that Nest B, wherever it was, would suit them better.

I did notice a fat bumblebee flying around abandoned Nest A when I eventually opened the house, and even took note of how fearless it was. It flew right to the nest and crawled on the mossy top while I was still peeking, but I thought only that the bee was curious. I didn't know enough then to imagine it was nesting in there.

Notice the blurry hovering bee at the door.

How could I not guess she was going to her nest?  But I didn't.

One article said to remove abandoned bird nests to encourage rebuilding, so after enough days to ensure the chickadees were permanently gone, I talked Moe into helping me with the task.  I don't know what I was afraid of, but I didn't want to do it alone.

He slipped it out of the box on a kitchen spatula. Imagine our surprise when the nest itself began to buzz. Not a soft buzz that could be chalked up to imagination. No. This was a furious insistent buzz that wouldn't quit. Moe laid the nest in the dry bed of a nearby birdbath, and we stood still to listen and wonder. Not only was it buzzing. It was vibrating. I whipped out my phone and began taking a video. One mossy depression in particular was shaking, and as my camera and I watched, out of that spot wiggled a huge fuzzy bumblebee.  It hovered over the hole for a moment with a piece of green moss hanging from its leg. It shook it off, then zoomed over my shoulder and away. I could not have been more surprised, but was thrilled to get it on video, already thinking what a great blog post it would make.



Still, I didn't get that the bee had a nest in there. I just thought it had gotten stuck, and I was its great liberator. But alas, after only one viewing, I deleted the video immediately.  Now I regret the hasty decision, but at the time, my background commentary so embarrassed me, I knew I would never post it. Let's just say it did not represent me well :-).  In the surprise of the moment I lost all pretense of acting like an adult. It's quite shocking to hear oneself in the act of being oneself.

But I digress. We left the box-shaped nest in the birdbath, thinking that was the end of the story. But two days later I heard it buzzing again.  That's when I finally realized there was a bumblebee nest inside and it was likely what had frightened off the chickadees. So I wrote that last blog post, asking for guesses, though it's clear to me now that most people, like Moe and Pukeko G, could figure it out right away. Two more days passed and the buzzing stopped.  A couple of pokes with a stick helped me decide the hot sun had sent the queen bumblebee packing.

Meantime, I read Patricia Lichen's coincidental and informative blog post about the nesting habits of a queen bumblebee, and it made me curious to see if there was such a colony inside our nest, now abandoned by everyone.  So yesterday I raked it apart with a couple of sticks and sure enough, found the remains of a hard waxy bumblebee colony along with another surprise that I didn't notice at all until I looked at the photos in my camera.

Remains of bumblebee colony that fell out of mossy nest when I raked it open.

Bumblebee colony turned over.

But look!  What's that in the lower right hand corner of the photo?

Just one lonely chickadee egg! 

To give you an idea of size.

See how precious and tiny.

Then came the biggest surprise of all.  The nest had fallen apart into two layers—top and bottom.  The bumblebee colony was in the bottom layer.  I had combed through both sections with my sticks, so I was pretty sure there was only one egg.  But just in case, I gently raked through the top layer one more time. And look what I found, carefully hidden under the downy cover.

So special and fragile. So well protected. They were probably doomed from the moment that queen bumblebee began her magnum opus, the great work of her life, but how heavy my heart to discover it now. Are the parents grieving? Will they mate again?  Have they begun a new nest? Oh, the beauty and brutality of the natural world. dkm

What Harm Befell Them?

 My chickadees are gone. Just gone. As in not here anymore. Replaced by silence and mystery. The abandoned nest of green moss, grass, and oak pollen, was topped with fluff of chickadee down. No eggs. No eggshells. No completion of the work in progress. No farewell message. No hint as to what harm befell the poor things, and surely it was harm. What would cause a diligent pair of chickadees to abandon their nest so near hatching time, if not harm or threat to their safety?

I had watched them for only three days. His regular bringing of food to the doorway led me to believe she was keeping eggs warm, if not already brooding newly hatched young. Then on the fourth day all was quiet. Being only two weeks from the time of the building of the nest and not yet having heard tiny chirps, I'm pretty sure it was too soon for nestlings to have fledged. I watched for a few more days, making sure all nest activity had ceased before I dared open the box to peek inside. The only sign of activity was a large bumble bee flying around near the box. At first I thought the mother had died on her nest. On closer inspection, it turned out to be only fluff, or down.

In this day of hi-tech instant answers to questions, it seems inconceivable that we will never know what happened. Still, the wonder and mystery of the natural world is exactly that. Wonder and mystery. Even in a civilized backyard, we can never have all the answers. It is as it should be—and the reason for the magnetic attraction for all of us, is it not?

 I was so looking forward to seeing a chickadee family into the world. Was it my imagination that the mysterious black cat lurking in the bushes across the way on the morning of the fourth day of observation was licking his chops?  But now I have another guess that may be more likely. Will share it next post.  It has to do with what we found on April 7th when we removed the nest from the box, and what still buzzes there today. Anyone care to guess before I post pictures? dkm

Sir Chickadee at the door, March 28

Several days of silence and mystery

April 4th

Closer view, April 4th

Oy Vey . . .

Let me not spend March indoors again.  Carolina chickadees are already well into tending a nest in last year's bluebird house and I almost missed it for housecleaning! Oy vey! I don't know what got into me—some sort of manic preoccupation with organizing every room coupled with the ruthless throwing out of things. Let it not be an omen that something alarming is about to happen for which I need to have my house in order.  More likely, it's that things had come to such a state of neglect, something had to be done for the tranquility of my soul :-).  Even more likely, and as my psychology professor friend Steve believes, it was that I am on the verge of finishing my manuscript, a prospect so frightening I must take drastic measures to prevent it—measures as drastic as organizing my office, cleaning the basement and re-alphabetizing all the books in the house. For real. I did all of those things, but I swear I want to finish my book. Can't imagine why I would so sabotage myself. Steve says it happens all the time. Proving him wrong is enough motivation to goad me into finishing—as soon as I clean off my desk.  That's a project worth two days of prevention.

Whatever, I was vaguely aware of the possibility of chickadees in the birdhouse, because about two weeks ago, my grandchildren and I saw two of them entering and leaving repeatedly with bits of moss in their beaks.  Oh the magic of witnessing such an event with young children—the whispering, the stillness, the rapt attention. When we were sure both chickadees had flown away, we opened and peeked inside the house, thrilling at the freshly built-up layers of pine straw and soft green moss we found there. But I feared we had chased them off because I didn't see them again until today, though I had only glanced briefly on my daily passes to and from the compost heap.

To be truthful I haven't been longsitting outside recently, in favor of watching this year's Spring through window of house and car.  The beauty of spring bloom in Atlanta is so extreme it appears extravagant even through glass, until you sit outside and recognize you've only perceived a fraction of its intensity. Yesterday I sat out for two hours, unable to tear myself from the directness of the sensations. One can do nothing but gasp in astonishment at the cherry petals falling like snow on every warm breeze, the fluffy azalea color at every turn impossible to comprehend, the lacy white dogwood blossoms sprinkled across yards and woods, the inchworms and strands of oak pollen floating by on invisible filaments of silk, the occasional glints of sunlight traveling along the filaments, the aggressive territorial birdsong mingled with flirtatious chase and flutter of mating season, the rattle of woodpecker on the gutter, the cack-cack-cack-cack of nuthatch, the boastful variety of cardinal calls, and the pleasure of all pleasures—chickadees in and out of the copper-roofed bird house.

I think she's egg-sitting and he's tending her. As yet I hear no tiny chirps, but soon. Today begins Nestwatch 2012, this year of Carolina chickadees.  May they see me through the finishing of the fabled "manuscript."  dkm

Madam Chickadee protecting her eggs from the respectful but unskilled photographer.  Click once on the photo to enlarge and see her pretty white cheeks. 

Of Things Haiku

Waycool haiku thankyou

Look
what
my
good
neighbors
put
on
pinked
yellow
paper
in
response
to
last
week's
daffodils.
Thanks, Sara and Ed!


Speaking of  haiku, nature lovers who also like wordplay will like Patricia Lichen's blog.  It's fun, environmentally savvy, literary, and wholly unique. On weekends  she invites her readers to respond with haiku or a limerick to one of her posts from the last five days. She brings a moment of poetic beauty to every Monday by posting a provocative quotation about the environment.  In addition to the midweek tidbits I learn about the environment on her blog, I look forward to the Monday quote and to the opportunity for a little creative wordplay every weekend. I don't know Patricia and Patricia doesn't know me,  but I know you will enjoy her blog. dkm