Winged Tussles and Other Movement in the Quiet of Winter

Some days, there are a lot of birds around our yard. There is the cardinal that stands on the ridge of the roof and announces his presence to the world. There are the nuthatches that skitter upside down and sideways around the trunks of the great oaks out back (a behavior that might help them see or hide food others miss), the northern flickers that look like they should be pecking wood but probe for food in the soft ground of the lawn, and the tufted titmice that congregate beneath our kitchen's bay window.

Robins sing after it rains, before sunset, and at dawn. (As I try not to be awake for this last one, I'll have to just assume it). In the spring, the slender, fit females walk around the lawn with babies so engulfed in a fluffed combination of down and feathers, they appear much larger than their moms. Red-tailed hawks circle high above, their shadows spooking chipmunks. I saw one swoop to the ground and carry off a squirrel.

I only saw a chickadee once. It had made a nest in an old birdhouse one of us left without intention on the back porch railing over winter. I was absolutely delighted. But as soon as I opened the porch door it had not seen as a threat, it realized its mistake and I realized mine. It left right after--with everyone accounted for, I hope. I would sometimes hear chickadees in the evergreens at the end of the street, until the neighbors cut them down.

A pair of mourning doves lived for a time in the hedge by our driveway. If I took out the trash just as they were bedding down for the night (it would still be light out when they did), they would rustle and chirp angrily at the disruption. Like me if the trash truck is too loud in the morning.

In winter, things get quiet. At least they did before we got the feeder. Now, even as the backyard fades into the dreariness of nearly snowless winters, the feeder is alive with activity. The speed of it all is thrilling as everyone vies for a spot. When I took my camera out and upped the shutter speed, I realized how much detail my eyes had been missing.

This January, a storm momentarily changed the pace of it all. The morning before the snow, birds flocked the feeder and drained it quickly. I filled it up again as the snow started, but only the jays returned that day.

Thickly falling snow covers the branches of the tall oaks outside.

A few blue jays, grey in the low light, venture out.

The sun returns.

Watchful tufted titmouse.

I thought I was photographing a single jay. It wasn't until I got back to the computer that I saw the other two.

Cardinal in motion.