Orioles

The Orioles are back! I have been walking each morning by the Charles River. I go early when there are few people and the birdsong is at it's height. I was delighted to see a Kildeer this morning along with a Red-Tail Hawk being harassed by a flock of Starlings (did you know that a large flock of Starlings is called a murmuration?). Goldfinch were flitting around me while I watched the Tree Swallows feeding in flight on the swarms of insects gathered in the meadows near the Charles. But the real pleasure came when I was able to view in close proximity over 8 pairs of Orioles - both the Orchard and Baltimore variety. I watched as a determined female Baltimore worried a piece of ribbon (like that attached to balloons) from some underbrush. The ribbon was caught on a piece of the brush and she determinedly tug and twisted and hopped in and out of the brush trying to free it for use in weaving her nest. Eventually she was interrupted by the call of her mate and flew off, leaving the ribbon to another. I continued my walk and soon spotted a pair of Orchard Orioles mating. As I progressed on my constitutional I witnessed so many Orioles that I felt like I could reach out and have one land on me. It was truly spectacular. I learned their chipping call as well as their song. Practicing my own "whistle" and chip, I would call to them and receive calls in return. Magic.

I ponder whether all these returning birds feel the same sense of renewal that I feel as spring arrives and the world of New England comes alive again. 

A funny anecdote. As I was walking - slowly - observing the birds and listening intently at their calls, I heard a small sneeze. I stopped and listened so more, wondering if I had imagined this highly unlikely sound. I was very still, listening for it to repeat and out darted a large rabbit just in front of me and crossed the path into more brush. Did that rabbit sneeze? Experiences like this may well have served as the inspiration for many a children's tale. 

herons

Mist hung low over the quiet pond as we drove past. The water was spotted with dead trees that added to the haunted look. I noticed huge nests settled in the highest crooks of several trees. The whole scene was eery and beautiful. Later, while visiting with a friend who lives near these strange trees, I mentioned my curiosity about the nests. She told me that there were dozens of Great Blue Herons who come in every year to nest there. Really? Despite having lived by the water most of my life, I have never seen a Heron nest and was fascinated. I mean this pond is no where near the sea. It's close to Walden actually and I had just never thought about Heron's around a pond. 

Last week Kelsey and I went to investigate and sure enough there were a dozen or so Great Blue Heron's sitting on or near their nest. There are signs on both sides of the road stating NO PARKING - but come on! - so we pulled over anyway. Grabbing the binoculars we scanned the nests and there they were - those big, beautiful and terradactyl-like Heron's. I couldn't believe it! The more I seek nature here in this urban/suburban environment the more I am surprised by it's abundance. Watching those heron's filled me with a familiarity and a connection to parts of me that hunger all the time. If I have felt deprived of the natural world I have myself to blame, for even in the city nature is there for the observant. 

Sunrise. The lone Flicker singing at the top of his lungs - no response to his call. I cannot help but chuckle though it is dawn. Every morning I am awakened by this fellow. He starts at sun-up and keeps up his noisy vigil till sundown. This poor guy cannot find a mate and clearly he's desperate. I want to tell him to change location, for surely he would get an answer if he would just fly east to the Arboretum or a bit west towards the Charles. Here on my street there are lots of Robins, Jays, Nuthatches, Chickadees, Cardinals and the like - but there aren't many woodpeckers - or Flickers. His mating call is persistent and after 4 or 5 hours makes me feel a bit of a loon myself. I don't shut the windows though. I have waited too long for warm weather, the fresh scent of spring and birdsong. I have my doubts about this fellow mating this year but clearly it won't be for lack of his efforts.

salt marsh diary

Delightful excerpt (beware of the graphic description!) from the Salt Marsh Diary ->

http://www.saltmarshdiary.com/

Never bite off more than you can chew

 

 

We see the big bird land, close to the edge of the river where the sea lavender is high now and the color of pale lilac. As tall as the adult he will become though perhaps not as much heft, it is only the subtle particulars of the mottling on his throat and the absence of a crown that gives his youth away. “Great blue heron,” I say, handing my neighbor Mike the binoculars while I set up the scope for his wife Colette and before I have the lens cap off Mike yells, “He’s got an eel!”

This is what happens when you invite another fisherman to your patch of the pond. He steals your luck. This though we are not catching fish or eating any. It’s a vegetarian dinner and Mike is not exactly a fisherman, he and Colette own Star Fish Market. But still. I have thousands of hours watching this marsh, sat patiently at marshes fresh and salt across the continent. I have seen great blues all year every year of my adult life and I have never seen a heron eat an eel. And Mike? Mike’s been in my living room exactly five minutes.

“It’s a snake,” I say. I’ve never seen a heron eat a snake, either.

At this point what’s happening in the marsh is the pale shadow of the indoor drama. My wife Valerie (this between furtive glances through the lens) is yelling, “I can’t watch it I can’t watch it!” but she does and Colette, just as glued to the scene peals out, “It’s disgusting!”

“It’s an eel,” I say.

“It’s huge!” Valerie says.

Fish stories notwithstanding, the eel – snake - whatever - though only about 2 feet long is half the height of the bird which in turn is a bit more than the distance from the heron’s beak to his gut. Huge enough.

“It’s yellow-green on the bottom,” Colette says. “Are eels that color on the bottom?”

“I saw those little fins behind the head. It’s an eel,” I repeat with authority. Authority is the last redoubt of Birder’s Ego.

“It’s going down. There it goes,” Mike says.

It’s down all right, but not forgotten. The heron’s entire neck is undulating with its contents of live eel. Half a second later the eel wriggles partway out.

“Gross!” Valerie says.

Even I am having trouble looking. It is not exactly the best complement to dinner and Valerie’s been cooking all day. Dolmadakia, kouloukokefthedis, fried haloumi, humus ba tahini, babaganoush, boreki – the whole catastrophe of labor-intensive Mediterranean delicacies designed to keep Greek and Arab and Jewish and Kurdish and Armenian women permanently in the kitchen - despite which sacrifice we’ve hardly touched a thing. Given the pre-prandial entertainment, Pepto-Bismol may yet be the main course.

“He’s stabbing it,” Colette says.

“It’s down,” Mike says.

“It’s up,” Valerie says.

“Yech!” someone says, and finally it’s over.

“He’s drinking,” Mike says.

“Ooh. Just like cookies and milk,” I say.

“We’re EATING,” Valerie calls, inviting us to table as her sister Penny and husband David come unsuspecting through the door. We tell them what they’ve missed, switch to white wine from red and let the conversation drift to more convivial things while we eat like potentates, to repletion.

Out in the salt marsh the young heron stands shock still on a bleached cedar snag, beak pointing up, neck stretched skyward digesting or trying to while I am reminded, uncomfortably, of Henry I (1100-1135) who died of eating a “surfeit of Lampreys.” I should not have worried. The next afternoon the heron returns, proof as he hunts stealthy along the banks that surfeit, like most things in life, is relative.