FRIENDS
OF LATODAMI ENVIRONMENTAL EDUCATION CENTER
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New Book Describes a Year at
Latodami |
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Special Bonus The following are the new journal entries from Randy for April, 2005. Previous entries from February and March are still on line. Latodami It’s spring, yes, but cold—33o at Still, two migrant arrivals greet me as I climb the hill to the upper meadow: chipping sparrows and a towhee. The woods is busy with robins. Two are at war a few feet from me. Though they appear to be hunting among the leaves, one is stalking the other. Now one rushes the other. The second one leaps into the air to face him. Silently they meet, chest to chest, a foot above the ground, and beat each other with their wings. After a furious moment, they part, land, and seemingly go back to their feeding. But in a minute or two, their battle continues. I’ve read that mating and the pre-mating battles for territory exhaust the males and that the physical condition of arriving migrants is crucial to their mating success. These robins are showing me why. The air above the meadow reminds me of the Battle of Britain. Everywhere, pairs of male red-winged blackbirds wheel and dive in pursuits just as serious and aerobatic as any Spitfire pilots ever knew. Song sparrows, too, have put their music aside and resorted to muscle. Their chases tend to be straight-line dashes from grass-stem to grass-stem. Nearby, a woodpecker is drumming. The message is clear. “Here I am. Bring it on.” Some, though, aren’t at war. Bluebirds and some robins—perhaps the females—are hunting in the short green grasses. A tree swallow sits on a mullein stalk. I no longer strain to catch the blackbird’s song; the very air vibrates with the trills. A chickadee has been singing his plaintive two-notes in the woods. Now here he is, inspecting the bittersweet that is enveloping the apple tree. A second arrives quietly—his mate, surely. So much, though, for peace. Two bright red cardinals vie for the top of the windmill. One flies off, the other dashes after him. A minute later, one returns, perches on the cherry tree’s topmost twig, and sings his victory song. He’s vivid red against a bright blue background. What woman could resist? A robin arrows in, quite unimpressed. The cardinal flutters over a foot or so. Then a second robin roars in and the treetop is a chaos of robins—with the cardinal calmly singing in the middle. This isn’t his war. Soon the robins chase off. Moments later, one returns to the treetop to sing of his victory. To the outsider, the theme seems so obvious, so repetitive. But to each cardinal, each robin, this is life itself. And each one of them is right, for the passion of life is in the doing. We watchers may be moved—or not—but we are still only watching. Though my breath still smokes, the spiders are busy. Their cables glisten in the sunlight. And there, among Jose Taracido’s native grasses, is a meadowlark! Perhaps, this year, a pair will pause in their northward search for a home and stay here. Hoping for a better angle on the meadowlark, I cross to the hedgerow. The lark has disappeared, but a barn swallow flits by! I didn’t know they’d arrived. And now a blackbird flies directly at me—at eye level. Head on, all I see is crimson—blood-red, determined, and aimed right at me. He veers away at the last moment to land above me, singing. I blink. Were I not 300 times his size, I’d be black tail feathers, headed north. Swallows seem to be a vision of freedom. Being one must be like living your whole life on a rollercoaster—but not during breeding season. Two tree swallows nearby are now very attached to two respective nest boxes. When others wheel by, the one directly in front of me does a fluttery little dance in front of the entry hole. He hunts, but only in little loops near and around his box. One of his neighbor’s loops comes too near. He dashes after the interloper and, in his turn, crosses the line. The two birds meet chest-to-chest in the air, beat each other with their wings, and fall fluttering into the grass. I think I see feathers flying as they continue to war, earthbound. After what seems a long time, they break off and return to their boxes, apparently unhurt. They must be exhausted, though. A female bluebird, then a male, land on a third box that seems to be within the territory of the closest swallow. He doesn’t appear to care. They aren’t his problem. However, a third swallow does appear to be their problem. When they descend to mullein stalks to hunt, swallow number three lands on their doorway. Instantly, the bluebirds’ hunt is done. They race to “their” box and the swallow leaves. They resume their hunt. The orange cat is hunting the meadow, too, and just caught and ate a mouse. I barely noticed. Life and death can be so matter-of-fact. The cat froze in mid-stride, stepped quietly and slowly for two or three paces, pounced almost gently, and came up with a mouse. It looked all around, ate the mouse quickly and moved on. In the woods across the road, crows have been mobbing something. Now, as the cat disappears, a red-tailed hawk flies over from the crows’ direction. It spreads its wings over the meadow, soars partway across, then stoops upon it. I can’t see any more, but I do understand the cat’s caution. Now I’m in the woods. The trees are blooming. My breath is again properly invisible—much better. The flock of small birds passes through: titmice, nuthatches, a downy woodpecker, and one on the ground that I can’t quite see. As I strain to identify it a large black shadow sweeps across the grass in front of me. Above, just at tree level, the red-tail is gazing down on me. It circles away, and now I see there are two. Were I smaller… And now a sharp-shinned hawk slips over swiftly. A cardinal had been singing lustily from a high branch. He quit in time. There is a time to sing—and a time not to. Latodami We haven’t had rain for days. The morning is bright, cool, and dry. I long for those April showers. A pair of bluebirds is perched on a box near the apple tree. Another box nearby appears to be the home of a pair of tree swallows. Though the temperature is only around 40o, the air over the meadow is filled with circling swallows. I presume, then, that there are also flying insects. The air is also full of bird song. Song sparrows and field sparrows are the major artists of the moment. One field sparrow sings every eight seconds. I note that just for the record; I’ll have to time others to tell if it’s the norm. Now a towhee enters with a song that’s new for me: a harsh chirp followed by the usual trill. He’s in the very top of the tree, which is a good place to be at the moment. The orange and white cat is patrolling below. I guess that the cat
is feral. It seems to live in the
meadow. Meg is trying to catch
it. She did recently catch the feral gray
cat that I’ve seen here since 2001. I
saw that cat—a female—today, still in the live trap. Meg will give her to an organization that
tries hard to place the cats, only killing them if all else fails. But the gray cat has been wild for a long
time. She sits sullenly in the trap,
in jail for no crime she knows. The
likelihood that she’ll find a home, or want one, seems small. I find her situation
tragic. She was probably dumped by the
roadside by callous humans too lazy to find her a home, too weak to kill her
themselves. Instead, they just tossed
her out to die—or live, if she was able.
This cat became quite able, and that is her crime: to live,
successfully, as the hawks and the foxes live. Our decision is a
sad one then, and typical of many life or death decisions. Actually, I think we seldom get to choose
between life and death. The question,
usually, is not whether something—or someone—will die, but what—or who—it
must be. In this case, the choice is
between a cat and her prey: countless birds and small mammals. Since Latodami is intended to be a refuge
for the wild creatures that are being crowded from their homes by urban
sprawl, the cat has to go. But the only
difference between the little black and white cat that lies purring at my
feet and the wild, angry grey cat in the cage is that he was captured only
days after he was abandoned, while she got away. Along the hedge across the meadow, I find a bluebird, a dove, and a field sparrow in “my” tree—the one I usually lean on as I watch life on the meadow. While the nest box in front of me belongs to bluebirds, most of the others belong to swallows. Pairs of them are perched on houses all around me. Suddenly, as if a starting shot were fired, they leap simultaneously into the air and the meadow sky is filled with a whirl of swallows. One lands, twittering, on a branch above me to preen and glitter in the sunshine. The bluebird perched nearby has begun to dart out for insects in flycatcher fashion. He too flashes in the light. Now a blackbird arrives, puffs out in shiny red and black, and sings. Though the tree seems to be neutral territory, a grassy section of the meadow is still a war zone for three song sparrows and the ownership of the “bluebirds’” box isn’t as firm as I’d thought. A swallow lands on it, then leaves casually as the bluebird just as casually leaves the tree to land on the box. It doesn’t seem like a confrontation, but since it’s happened several times now, I suspect it is one. I’d like to know who finally wins that nest box, but if the contest is a test of perseverance, I’d better get on with my life. The dispute could go for days. The woods by Grom Run are quiet. The stream gurgles gently. A titmouse calls in the distance. The bushes, mostly barberries and multaflora rose, are green with new leaves. Beneath them lies a deer’s carcass. It’s past odorous, but the mortuary team—flies and hornets that I can see—are still working. Its fur is scattered downwind. Its skull is just peeking out. Soon it will join the leaf duff and the red dust of rotted trees to push up new trees and greener grass. At the moment, though, I’m subdued. Along Grom Run, the skunk cabbages are unfurling their great green leaves. Gnats swarm in the sunlight. A large fly with iridescent wings preens among the bright green barberry leaves. From the hill above, a towhee whistles, a robin whinnies, and a woodpecker drums. Life goes on. There’s a certain ironwood tree that helps me climb the hill. It feels muscular and alive—indeed, it is. It fits my hand so well. Sure, there is death and we all must face it, but oh I will hold the touch of a cool strong tree against it. And the May apples, just two inches high, are poking up through last year’s leaves. Latodami Birds sang all around me on my hike through the woods to the meadow: towhees and titmice in the woods, wrens and blackbirds at the fringe. Two robins were locked in a silent fury of feathers among the leaves. The territorial battles rage on. A red-tailed hawk watched it all, and waited, atop the windmill until I plunged too clumsily through. Now I’m watching a contested nest box in the meadow. The swallow still circles it, still wants it. The male bluebird sits tightly on it, makes occasional forays to chase the swallow away. This must be exhausting for both birds. The bluebird doesn’t seem to have a chance to eat; the swallow is constantly in the air. I’ve read that, for cavity nesters, the scarcity of suitable holes in trees (and empty nest boxes) is their major problem. This inconspicuous but no-nonsense battle for one has convinced me. A song sparrow with a long moustache of grass stems perches above me, looks all around, then vanishes quietly into the meadow. Surely the lives of those who have the whole meadow to nest in must be far simpler. But then there is the orange cat, and the fox family, and blacksnakes, and… A red-winged blackbird chases another from his tree. Blackbirds nest low in the meadow, too, but space is still at a premium. I think none of their lives are simple. The female bluebird flies into the nest box. The male peers in after her, then flies off. Instantly, the swallow reappears, lands on the roof, and also peers in at the female. As though shot from a bow, the male flies back. The swallow leaps up, circles above, and flutters in front of the house, but the bluebird just sits quietly, watching. In the woods across the meadow, a big cherry tree fell years ago and now grows ever more earth-like. One tattered branch still stretches skyward a few feet. Two chickadees seem drawn to it: usually, their foraging is a quick, intense sweep that, in a minute or two, takes them out of sight. But this pair keeps coming back to the branch, their hunting ground only a twenty or thirty yard radius around it. I suspect there’s a hole on the other side, so I move to see it better. A female cardinal flutters from a bramble bush as I pass—she’s probably on a nest. But as I settle to watch, the chickadees seem to have left. Several minutes pass. They haven’t left. One lands on a branch nearby, hops from twig to twig until it’s within an arm’s length of me, and peers about through tiny black beads that surely see all. A male cardinal lands above to sing in tones so like a bell. There are two chickadees again, both in a rose bush hanging upside down, now bouncing from twig to twig. Their path takes them—back to the cherry limb. Dead bark hangs from it in tatters. There are crevices and dark corners of rot and bark, but no visible hole. They don’t disappear inside. This may only be a wonderful place for a spider hunt. Maybe, but I bet it hides a greater mystery and that it’s time for me to let it be. By Grom Run, spider webs glisten in the sunshine. Cardinals are singing all around me. Crows are patrolling just above the treetops: there, they are sharp silhouettes against the blue sky, at my feet, their black shadows circle and swoop on the green of grass and bush. Two fox squirrels chase through those bushes and into the trees; a red squirrel hastens across the stream on a fallen log. Titmice, white-throated sparrows, a towhee, and a red-bellied woodpecker variously sing, call, and rattle. The sun is warm on my back. The green of the world is lovely. A flat black pool is blinking with water striders. Their jerky paths leave little circles that shimmer as they grow, then disappear. Each strider reminds me of an oil-drilling platform: an angular body perched on six thin columns. Similarity ends at the surface. These don’t dive on to the depths below. Instead, they stand on silver dimples of compressed water. I’ve wondered how
the water striders survive when the stream goes dry. Meg says that they can fly, but suspects
that they hide and become dormant during dry spells. The crows have found what they were looking for: an owl, probably. They’re mobbing in the pines above. More are arriving, in fives and sixes, shouting support as they pass over. I lose count of those that have flown over me, and they’re converging from all directions, a dark ring of anger collapsing into a dense black rage. Waves of hatred sweep across the woods. Their vehemence leaves me—amused. I wonder if, deep down, they enjoy the excitement, the wild leaping about on thin branches, the resonances discovered in unison screaming. The owl, after all, isn’t hurt. It sits, blinking in the sunlight, and waiting. In the interludes, a woodpecker drums on a tree nearby. Cardinals and titmice sing. And, finally, the crows dissipate in quiet twos and threes. The din diminishes, then falls into silence. A different sound, not angry, but raucous and urgent, calls me to the pond. It’s a ringing sound, too musical for wood frogs, reminiscent of tree frogs, but neither. It is, I find as I reach the pond, the mating song of common toads. Their numbers aren’t so large: one or perhaps two hundred gathered in the shallow all around the pond. Still, it is a melee. Everywhere paired toads lie quietly, the male atop, in an inch or two of water. Near me, a third and a fourth, surely males, try to clamber aboard but are shoved away by a long brown leg. Again and again they return, but so far without luck. The competition is all around. One such trio topples over in a brown scramble of warty arms and legs. I’ve no idea if the intruder is able to displace his competition; I doubt if the female can, either, of if she cares. Here and there an isolated male’s throat will swell into a pink balloon and, with mouth seemingly closed, he will sing. I find his song pleasant, but worry a bit that there are too few of him. A couple of herons could wreak havoc with the population rather quickly, it seems, and they do fly over occasionally. Meg says that this
spring has been hard on the amphibians: cold, then dry, then cold again is
bad weather for toads. Indeed, the
last few years have been hard on them.
Latodami The cold spring continues.
This morning is the warmest in four days, and the temperature is only
47o. If bird song is an
indication, the birds don’t mind.
Songs of towhee, white-throated sparrow and A turkey picking her way up the stream sees me at last and casually disappears into the barberries. She’s as smooth as the crow was clumsy: she didn’t break stride and hardly changed direction. She was there, and then she wasn’t. I had hoped to hear a thrush this morning, but I think they haven’t arrived yet. I worry about them. But there’s nothing I can do to help them on their way, so up the hill I go to see about other things. The songs change at the meadow’s edge. Now I listen to field sparrows, song sparrows, and red-winged blackbirds. A flicker rattles behind me. Two turkeys that had been walking sedately along the edge now hustle into the brush. A pair of robins, one with a bill full of bugs, land nearby. The one with bugs slips quietly into a pine tree; the other perches carelessly on the branch in full view, looking about. It’s an old dance but, as always, I hope it works. As I stand watching the meadow, the robins come and go with their “meals on wings,” nervously if I’m watching them, always quietly and carefully. A deer runs across the meadow in a way that strikes me as odd—can’t say why, it’s just different somehow. I’m moving along the tree line. Across the meadow, a mockingbird chatters madly. Near him, starlings and a bright yellow goldfinch perch with dignity. On the meadow, at least one swallow is perched on nearly every house. Two bluebirds hunt from mullein spires. A cardinal sings behind me. And now the deer is running nervously toward me! This is odd—and now, no it isn’t. A woman with two leashed dogs is walking the trail below. To the deer, I’m the lesser of the evils. So I stand still, the lady reaches the downhill turn on the trail, and the deer bounds past, greatly relieved, I’m sure. Near the apple tree, there’s a second nest box that has been inhabited by bluebirds. They’re still there, though this one, too, is contested. Two swallows circle it, the male bluebird rockets up from a few yards away, peers into the hole to check. All seems well. He goes back to his hunt. I walk down the hill to my car. |
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