Huginn/Muninn

Archive for March, 2009

Left, corvus brachyrhynchos rejects the offending turkey-dog

We were descended upon by ten crows this morning. They haven’t been around in awhile, or at least not when we’re home. Their visiting numbers have increased dramatically–from four to ten. I wish I knew what precipitated the addition of members; could it be that as nesting season is about to begin extended family members have been recruited to help out? Or simply the fact that ten pair of eyes are better than four?
A combination of both? The mysteries of the corvid world abound.
Alas, they were gone before I knew it. When I saw them do a ‘fly by’ to check out the contents of their feeding platform (at the time it was empty of food but full of snow) I high-tailed it to the refrigerator for the bag of turkey-dog slices I had prepared in case they stopped by. To this I added some tortillas, dumped the mess on the perch, and waited. Someone must have been watching (although I saw no crows in the area when I headed back into the house) as they appeared in the cottonwood and bur oak within two minutes. Nine stayed in the trees while the tenth investigated the cache. How, I wonder, did he get the job of investigator? Was he the low crow or the alpha crow? The bravest bird, the senior bird, or the most expendable bird?
Whatever the case, the turkey dogs were rejected. The nosing around ended in everyone leaving, with no delectable hot-dog slices or tortilla bits being taken. This leads me to believe that they must have a better selection elsewhere. Mike says they’re not hungry. I think I just need to up the ante. Tomorrow it’s fried eggs.

Greta’s early morning shot of the new snow on the fence

I didn’t believe the weather people when they said it would snow 3 to 6 inches last night. It didn’t seem possible; robins were pulling worms from the ground, doves pairing up, maples blooming, and the world generally felt as though it was marching toward spring. Wrong. We have been left with at least 6 inches of snow; heavy and wet, pulling every tree limb toward the ground. Under the snow branches are covered with the ice that formed before the snow started. On the whole, it is disappointing and depressing, and I am boycotting outside until it can once again be reasoned with. Which doesn’t look as if it will happen anytime soon.

Our local Coop tucks up a leg (in an effort to conserve body heat and prepare for a rest) after a meal of Junco last winter

I’m thinking about ducks today. A friend of mine, also somewhat outdoors-obsessed, mentioned seeing a migrating Scaup on a local lake and this has put duck-thoughts into my head. I am contemplating Mallards though, not Scaups. A pair made their first arrival of the spring in my backyard a few days ago and have been back every morning since. When I was alerted to their presence, I ran like a lunatic out to the garage to prepare cracked corn and a huge saucer of water for them in the hope I could get it into place before they left and without scaring them off. I don’t know how successful I was since we had to leave for school a few minutes later, but at the end of the day someone had worked over the corn and there was a sludgy corn-mess at the bottom of the water dish. I realize there is nothing particularly compelling, or even interesting, about Mallards arriving to my suburban backyard–unless the rest of the story is considered.

In April of 1995, my husband and I arrived home from a trip to Europe. The morning after we got back, jetlagged and wide awake long before we wanted to be, two Mallards arrived in our yard. At the time, our backyard was a virgin stand of suburban desolation, with tiny trees, new sod, and few birds to watch. Thus, the arrival of ducks was magical and a possible sign that our efforts at rewilding the place were showing some success. We had lived in this house, a pre-fab, slapped-together, charmless box, for a little over a year. In that time we planted a lot of twenty-dollar ( I wanted the $100 eight foot tall ones, but Mike is an optimist) trees, built a vegetable garden, put up a split-rail fence, and generally spent a lot of time dreaming about what things would look like in 20 years.

The Mallard pair did their part by returning every day that spring and I did mine by ensuring there was corn available to them as well as a lot of water with which to wash it down. They appeared religiously for over two months and then disappeared for the rest of the season. I was happy to have had them here but didn’t think much more about it.

The following year our son was born and I was lucky enough to be staying at home with him. This allowed me to watch the avian goings-on of that Spring as well. Again, the Mallard pair arrived at about the same time. Or, some ducks were there. I never knew if it was the same pair, but now, after watching ducks return close to the same time each spring and seeing them come every morning, I have questions.

It seems impossible that the same pair is still alive after so many years. I don’t know what the lifespan is of a Mallard, but fourteen years seems like eons in the waterfowl world. So, does this mean that different ducks show up in my yard, (now overgrown and as wild as the neighbors will tolerate) every spring? Is it coincidence that they fly in and land in exactly the same spot each morning? The place they choose to land is difficult for aerial navigation to say the least–they come in along the fenceline and under a huge cottonwood tree. There is a large open area between the house and gardens and trees which would provide a far easier landing strip, but they choose the more difficult route each day. Though it’s tougher to get to from the air, their chosen spot under the cottonwood, is right where I leave their corn and water. Coincidence? Possibly. But what I cannot shrug off to coincidence is the fact that there is virtually no way these are the same ducks who came in 1995. This leads me to conclude that there must be some sort of communication happening. Did my original ducks covey to others the location of the stores of corn I offered each day? Did these ducks then pass the informational torch to others? How many generations of Mallards have now visited my cottonwood over the years?

There is a good deal of anecdotal evidence as well as solid research regarding the sharing of knowledge in the corvid world. It is no secret that corvids have mental capacities beyond those of other animals, mammals included. Bernd Heinrich”s book The Mind of the Raven, discusses his observation of tagged ravens, with singular knowledge of a food store, communicating to others (at the roost, Heinrich supposes) about the cache. Different birds arrive, without the presence of the tagged birds, the next day to eat the carcass he has left for them. Obviously, discussion of some fashion is occurring somewhere during the daily comings and goings of these birds. But ducks? I don’t know how high on the list of brainy birds a Mallard is thought to be, but I assume they don’t approximate the intelligence of crows and ravens. Whether or not the same or different ducks show up at my house each spring is really no matter. But the possibility that each pair has been part of a succession of birds sharing knowledge is fascinating to me.

Fourteen years ago, my quarter acre was a veritable wasteland with little to offer any form of wildlife, including starlings. Over time and through a lot of effort, we’ve managed to give back a little of what was taken. The maligned, scrawny twenty dollar trees are huge, much to my surprise. There is a small pond now, which breeds dragonflies and the occasional mayfly I haul in a Nalgene from the river. Ample bird feeders and more importantly, natural food sources abound for anyone who shows up here. Happily, they do show up. Squirrels nest in our screech-owl box, which distresses me, but they are amusing and give Kola something to do. The starlings are more prevalent than I would like, but they don’t keep away the Cardinals, Blue-jays, Wrens, Juncos, or Goldfinches. Robins, who litter the lawn and sing for us every evening, are a reliable presence on the fencepost when I start turning over earth in the vegetable garden and actually wait for me to toss them a worm. It’s relatively easy to forget the opossum living under the shed until I am outside late and startle him…and am myself startled by his creepy grin in feigning death. I wish the chipmunks were nocturnal so the owls would start killing them, although the rabbits we lose to the owls are not missed. I would rather, as well, that the Cooper’s Hawk only take the Starlings and the occasional Mourning Dove, but he takes the slowest, not the least-liked. No-one bothers the crows who noisily and joyfully announce their dominance from the cottonwood. It is the four of them I am most excited to see when they arrive for a peanut or morning meal of scrambled eggs. It took years of offering them food before they deigned to take it, and they still do so warily.
So although I am completely unable to unravel the mysteries of nature, I am happy to be offered a place within it; though I am sure I will never know whether it is a fourteen year old mallard couple visiting my yard or a pair with amazing communication skills. Either way, I am grateful.

Near sunset a whitetail (who looks as if she will be busy come June) keeps an eye on me

Today’s gift was the sound of the robins singing their evening songs, and the knowledge that they will be here for the next seven months to grace us with their voices. A good day.

Turkey vultures have returned. I caught a glimpse of a pair this afternoon climbing thermals over the woods coursing along the river. The sight of them is reassuring–they’ll have a lot to do with a winter’s worth of losses in woods and field.
Though the water continues to recede a little more each day there was still a hell of a lot of water to avoid. Each step was taken gingerly, logs were balanced upon, curses were uttered with each misstep until I realized….why am I avoiding being wet? What will happen if I step in, all the way in and up to my knees if I want?
Nothing happened. I got wet. That’s it.
Though at this time of year the water hovers in the thick of the river at somewhere around 35 degrees, its edges are a somewhat more palatable temperature. There was a momentary chilly rush but my body quickly compensated and warmth returned. and an entirely new set of possibilities suddenly presented themselves. No longer having to worry about getting wet, the recently downed tree requiring investigation was accessible. A feather floating in the water was within reach. The perfect cottonwood branch, riddled with intricate wormholing, was no longer beyong my grasp. Actual and perceived impediments were gone the moment I invited the river into my boots.
In January, falling in the river proves terrifying–there is no reason for it to be so, but it is nonetheless. Every time I have slipped and gotten a bootful of icy water I am momentarily shocked, horrified, and angry. Yet within minutes I forget about being wet and enjoy the mistake–the line between warm and cold has been perforated and I am liberated from my fear. We should all approach the woods and rivers and fields with same abandon our dogs do–if there’s something good to see in the distance, go. A pile of river slash separating you and the hawk bathing in the sun? Figure it out and get there. Spongy wetland between the calling blackbird and you? Hold your breath and get moving.
Our mothers aren’t around to tell us not to get wet and besides, when did we listen anyway? We knew, even then, that the perils of wetness, coldness, buckthorns in the leg or bark in the eye were worth the joy of being unencumbered and unrestrained outside. So there ought to be nothing holding us back now.

The chipmunks are awake. I think they may have gotten up yesterday as I saw the first of the year perched on a stone at my back door eating sunflower seeds. He certainly did not look the way I would expect after a winter of sleeping–he was fat and spry, not at all sluggish and skinny as someone who has been hibernating for four months.

The river is settling into herself and has quieted in the last week. While I think we’re still two weeks from water levels dropping to normal, the shores and woods reclaim a little ground every day. That first day in April I am able to cross over the little creek adjoining the river and into the woods will be a happy one–after a month of no human activity in the area the soil is usually rife with an olfactory motherlode waiting to be gathered and sorted by Kola.

The kingfishers, who have been present but silent all winter, are announcing themselves again up and down the flooded banks. I wonder how easy the fishing is for them since I assume all the fish are low in the water, hugging the mud and gravel on the bottom. I also would like to know how the recently arrived herons are faring so early in their year of fishing–frogs are still ensconced in their blankets of mud, and with the fish still hiding in the depths, what are they eating? But the herons are there, doing their silent stalking–does this mean that there is someone to stalk, or just that they are rehearsing?

Earlier in the winter, on a rogue day of blessed 65 degree warmth, I found a heron lying on its side in two inches of water along the shoreline. His eyes, open and glassy, had either a spark of life left in them or had very recently given up sight forever. I couldn’t tell which. His keel was bony and slack, a sure sign that the fishing had not been good. I moved him from the water hoping to spare his body from a serious roughing-up by the coyotes and buried him in the snow under a tree. Why I thought snow would protect him from coyote senses is beyond me, but for short time I did think that. I continued my walk, my thoughts never leaving the possibility of getting him home somehow to be photographed and later buried in the garden. While I knew that he might feed someone sorely in need of a meal, I couldn’t stomach the thought of it. I was also more than a little intrigued by the possibility of photographs of those impossibly perfect feathers. Convinced,I circled back and dug him from the snow, stashing his ridiculous length in my sweatshirt and trying to look like I had anything but four feet of heron neatly folded into the fleece over my arm.
I am sure I had seen this very same bird the day before close to where I found him that morning. He was the only heron I had seen since late October, when the last of them lifted into the sky for a trip to somewhere warm for a few months. I thought at the time that it was strange that he was there, prowling the banks as if it were May and not January, and surmised that he must have been a first-year bird, brand-new at wearing his heron clothes and not yet versed in the ritual of migration. Whatever his situation, I hated finding that he had succumbed.
He resides for now in my freezer, waiting for the soil to yield to a spade. I don’t know that I made the right choice in taking him with me and away from his home waters, but it’s too late now. His spirit, already mingled with the many others lost this winter, does not care. Today, in the new warmth of early spring as I take the river’s pulse for another day, I will surely find it there.