LOVELY FLAME

Hush! 'tis he! My Oriole, 

my glance of summer fire…

—from “Under the Willows,”

by James Russell Lowell

Soon after moving into this streamside cottage, one of the first things I noticed was the pair of Baltimore orioles who'd hung their nest in a towering sycamore directly across the river from the front deck. Of course, orioles are pretty hard to overlook, especially males, with their gaudy orange-and-black plumage…a bird which looks like a jaunty, living flame. 

Not to mention their loud, flute-like whistles! In both sound and sight, Baltimore oriles are made to be noticed!

Naturalist Mark Catesby named the Baltimore oriole after George Calvert, the first Lord Baltimore, who visited Virginia in 1628, and was so delighted by the song and appearance of the many orioles he saw along the way that orange-and-black became the official heraldic colors of the Maryland colony. The baseball team took it’s name from the city and its colors from the state bird.

Audubon wrote vividly of days filled with orioles and their songs when he was exploring on both the Mississippi and Ohio rivers—the “thousand musical voices coming from neighboring trees,” and the gratification he experienced “upon sight of the brilliant birds.”

Baltimore orioles, while not exclusively a riverine species, certainly love to build their "hanging basket" nests along Ohio's numerous pastoral streams. I long ago lost count of the number of such nests and their parenting birds I've spotted while wading the brooks, creeks, and rivers for smallmouth bass—many suspended from overhanging sycamore limbs 20 or more feet above the water. Orioles songs have kept me well entertained when the fishing was slow.

Lord Baltimore's colorful bird is easily one of my favorite birds, and a cheery riverside companion.        

ORIOLE FLAME

Practically the first living creature I noticed the morning after I moved into this old stone cottage was a Baltimore oriole. I had a cup of strong coffee clutched desperately in hands made stiff and swollen from lifting boxes and shifting furniture, and I’d just staggered from the kitchen to the living room and out onto the narrow deck that overlooks the river. The gaudy, eye-catching male was sitting in a sunlit opening about halfway up a towering, white-trunked sycamore on the island directly across the channel—ember bright against the dark green leaves, visible as a neon sign.

A jaunty, living flame of a bird. 

As if in greeting, the oriole let loose with a verse or two of his lovely, flute-like whistles. I felt suddenly elated by his cheery welcome and immediately forgot all about my aching back and assorted pains.

I'm not the first to be captivated by an oriole's voice. Naturalist Mark Catesby named the Baltimore oriole after George Calvert, the first Lord Baltimore, who visited Virginia in 1628, and was so delighted by the song and appearance of the many orioles he saw along the way that orange-and-black became the official heraldic colors of the Maryland colony. Audubon wrote vividly of days filled with orioles and their songs when he was exploring on both the Mississippi and Ohio rivers—the “thousand musical voices coming from neighboring trees,” and the gratification he experienced “upon sight of the brilliant birds.”

I only managed a couple of shots of the Baltimore oriole that recently showed up in the dooryard box elder. Neither is particularly good. And after looking and comparing these photos to other images online, I'm frankly still not sure whether this less-colorful Baltimore oriole is a female or immature male—though I think the bird might be a bit too orange for a female. However, it also lacks a mature male's solid black head and the orange seems more muted than a typical adult male's…though drab only by full-dress oriole standards. So I remain confused. Opinions would be welcomed.

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WHISTLE WHILE I WORK!

My best Baltimore oriole underbelly photo…

One morning a week or so ago, Myladylove gave me a bleary stare over her tea mug and said I was "annoyingly cheerful."

"Moi?" I replied in a particularly dreadful French accent.

"How can you regularly get up in such a state of mind?" she asked, trying with only moderate success to arrange her facial expression into some semblance of a fearsome glare. Not that it would have kept me from laughing at her.

I'd just carried the tray with our breakfast into the front room, placing laden plates, glasses of juice, and refill pots of tea and coffee, on the table. Myladylove was still sipping at her first infusion of caffeine-rich Earl Grey. I stepped around her and opened the blinds so we could look out at the river and yard while we ate. At the sudden light—obliquely angled, mind you, and not all that bright—Myladylove recoiled like a vampire running late for her daily dirt nap.

"ARRGGGHHHH!" she said, trying again for that fearsome glare, but this time looking more like a squinty-eyed Mrs. Magoo…though I thought this similarity was probably not something I ought to mention while she had that half-mug of hot tea in her hand.

"Exactly how am I annoyingly cheerful?"

"You whistle…and whistle…and whistle!"

"Hmmm," I said. "I do whistle…and rather well, I think. I am a good whistler, and I vary my repertoire. Let's see…this morning I did some blues, a bit of gospel, a Hank Williams tune, an old Ricky Nelson song, and—"

Myladylove cut me off—and this time did manage her fearsome glare. "Yeah, but how can you jump out of bed so…perky!"

"Ahh-h," I said. "In point of fact, I staggered out of bed nearly two hours ago. I was not perky, you just weren't conscious. But now I've already had several cups of coffee, answered e-mail, taken Moon the dog out for her walk, checked the river…and waited around for you to wake up. I'm hungry and possibly a bit wired—but I always let you sleep-in on your day off. And I didn't whistle the first note until I heard you moaning and stirring in there; thereafter I whistled skillfully while fixing us a hearty breakfast."

Myladylove's expression softened, a sure sign the tea's caffeine was finally kicking in. "I love it that you cook…and that you let me sleep in, and have my breakfast ready when I finally get up. That's just wonderful!" She grinned at me across the table. "And you are a great whistler."

I thought about this conversation a couple of days ago while working in the yard. Since first light, the sweet May air had been filled with the exuberant, high-volume whistling of a Baltimore oriole. Actually, it was plural—orioles—since there were at least two birds around. They were whistling—a sort of near-continuous call-and-response exchange—which I presume was in hopes of attracting a mate. Apparently they considered their competitive situation desperate, although I think a whistle every couple of minutes ought to have been sufficient. Either you got or or you don't, and a show of self-assurance never hurts.

Did I mention this was a loud exchange? And while we're at it, is there a louder whistling bird on the planet than a Baltimore oriole? Sure, Carolina wrens are pretty good, volume-wise—but orioles are better. WAY LOUDER! Moreover, orioles whistle and whistle and whistle, endlessly, with every breath, for hours on end.

The loud and continuously whistling creatures were working their way through the tops of my yard's numerous sycamore trees. I don't know what they were finding to eat up there, but something good—and plentiful—because they kept going from tree to tree, up and down the riverbank, covering and recovering this chosen feeding ground. And they did this for 12 hours straight…whistling all the while.

Yes, I tried to get a good photo. Tried and tried and tried. These sycamores are very tall and the birds were usually smack in the tops. A 1200mm lens instead of 200mm one would have helped. Maybe. At least it would have provided a better view of an oriole underbelly, which is what you get when you stand beneath a tall tree and shoot straight up at a bird far above. I managed numerous oriole underbelly shots, but they would have been notably better underbelly shots with a longer-reaching lens.

Of course sometimes I couldn't see the birds. Oh, I could hear them whistling, loud and clear, but I couldn't actually see the whistler. You might think a bird only slightly smaller than a robin, decked out in Halloween dress of brilliant orange and black, and located somewhere in the top of a tree whose leaves are only partway filled out for the season, would be an easy mark. You'd be wrong. At least I regularly had trouble spotting them, which was frustrating given the racket they were making.

Anyway, I shot and shot and shot trying to get a better photo; I stalked and maneuvered and did my best…and not infrequently I stomped off in frustration and went back to my yard work, which, I ought to mention, is why I haven't put up a post for several days. Between days of rain and Myladylove's hospital adventure weekend-before last, plus the aftermath of follow-up doctor appointments and tests—and always factoring in my usual margin for personal sloth—I've been long on chores and short on time.

But at least the other day…I didn't have to do my own whistling while I worked!

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