GOOD NEWS BUZZARDS

Unlike the negative connotations when chickens are involved…having your buzzards come home to roost is a good thing. At least from my admittedly critter-centric viewpoint. When I looked across the river and saw the multiple dark forms of more than dozen turkey vultures sitting, like a troop of black-robed Lammergeier throughout the top of a large hackberry, I took them as an omen of good fortune.

In normal years turkey vultures seldom show up hereabouts before mid-March. In fact, the legend of the Hinkley buzzards and their annual March 15 return to the ledges above the Rocky River, near Cleveland, is nowadays an offbeat news story of international fame. Buzzard Sunday, held the first Sunday after March 15, attracts tens of thousands of visitors. And just like clockwork, you can expect the big birds to be winging about overhead, visible stars in the celebration.

Though I live in the southwestern corner of the Buckeye State, which is a long way from Cleveland, the vulture's yearly vernal reappearance locally generally comes surprisingly close to mirroring the March 15 date of their more acclaimed Hinkley kinfolk. This year, however—which has proven an unseasonable anomaly from the get-go—the buzzards made it back early. Real early. I saw several vultures wheeling around over a nearby field nearly three weeks ago—which, at a month before, is the earliest date ever in my experience.

Still, buzzards over a field a mile from here and buzzards at roost across from the cottage are two different matters. I was absolutely delighted to see them back along the river once again. I've enjoyed roosting vultures on the island every year since moving here. The somber scavengers are now more than trustworthy spring harbingers—I'd like to think we've become old friends. 

So from one old riverbank resident to another…welcome home!

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GROUNDED

A rather damp, dreary day here along the river, with light showers, off and on, since sometime before dawn. Heavier rains are predicted for this afternoon, tonight, and early tomorrow. The temperature is going the wrong way, too; 39˚F currently, which is four degrees cooler than it was at 6:00 a.m.

Actually, this might prove a blessing in disguise, since I won't be able to get out and work in the yard. I'm not sure my back can take another day of raking up winter's debris, restacking firewood, moving stones, or digging new planting beds. I'm already to the point where the pain pills have no effect whatsoever. A weather-induced rest, and time to heal, may be God's way of forcing common sense on an otherwise hopeless case.

The yard geese have just ambled up the bank to see whether I tossed them any tidbits from breakfast. (Nope.) I will give them a scoop of cracked corn as soon as I finish this post. In the meantime, they can pluck at my grass and give me the evil eye through the window all they want—but I'm not going to become their flunky.

An hour ago I looked out the front window and saw a treetop full of turkey vultures. So late in the morning, it was obvious they'd been grounded by the weather. While not exactly early birds, most days the vulture contingent is up and away by mid-morning.

Actually there were several trees with vulture-littered crowns—I counted 73 sitting birds total, among four adjacent trees—plus more in the air, flapping from limb to limb or tree to tree, sometimes making a quick glide circle over the river or around a few additional trees before settling back down among the clan. Occasionally one of the vultures would spread it's wings into a classic drying/sunning pose…but only for a moment, since there was no warming sun and no hope of drying out damp feathers; all a poor buzzard could to accomplish was to chill his wingpits and appear even sillier than normal.

My funereal-cloaked neighbors looked bored by their forced rest—restless, anxious to get a'wing and off, soaring high, on the lookout for a tasty morsel of ripe roadkill. I know the feeling. I'm also anxious to get out and about myself—though I'm hurting too badly to do anything useful. I still want to be on the move, driving along a rural backroad, looking for wildflowers or spring buds, birds, critters, stopping to peer over bridges spanning country brooks and seeing if I can spot fish or tadpoles in the pools.

Spring has sprung, even if the weather has taken a backtrack. I don't want miss a moment.

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A VENUE OF VULTURES

One of the "buzzard trees" across from the cottage.

One morning soon, I'll look out one of the living room's river-view windows, and the tops of the big sycamores on the island across from the cottage will be empty. The last of the resident turkey vultures, with whom I share this stretch of stream for most of the year, will have packed up and departed for milder climes. I'll be buzzardless until next March.

When I moved here four summers ago, I didn't know one of the riverbank's bonus features was a clan of turkey vultures who roost nightly in the trees directly across the channel. I also didn't know I'd come to so enjoy their habits and company.

Turkey vultures are one of two vulture species in Ohio, the other being the black vulture, which is similar in appearance in overall shape, but a bit smaller and has a dark, rather than a red, turkey-like head. Another difference between the two is that black vultures hunt by sight, while turkey vultures find their meals of the recently deceased via their keen sense of smell—one of the few birds to possess such a highly developed ability of odor detection. A big turkey vulture has a wingspan of six feet and weighs upwards of 6 pounds. Their lifespan in the wild can exceed 16 years, and at least one captive bird passed the 33-year mark. They lack a voice box, so the only sounds they utter are hisses and grunts.

Lazing around, taking some sun, discussing breakfast.

There's simply no charitable way to put this…as looks go, turkey vultures are ugly. Not "cute" ugly, just plain old whupped-with-an-ugly-stick ugly.

But only on the ground. Put a turkey vulture in the air and there's no bird more capable and beautiful in flight. The blue sky was made for the soaring turkey vulture. To watch them tilt and turn, wheel and dip, almost never flapping their wings, yet holding aloft with grace and elegance and absolute mastery of form, it makes you believe bird and sky are nothing short of complementary elements, each created to showcase the other.

I can't begin to tell you how many hours I spend each year just watching those buzzards fly—riding the wind as if it were their's alone. More than any other bird I know, turkey vultures seem to delight in flying, to take great pleasure in their prowess—to experience a sheer joy while ignoring gravity.

Time and again I've observed them coming home in the afternoon. They appear high, little more than dark dihedral smudges against the bright sky canopy. Sometimes they wheel outward in great loops, spiraling, lifting, then swooping down—coming closer and closer to their roost trees. Before settling, they might make make only a single low pass, barely clearing the treetops, or they might elect to make several. They then often land and sit on a limb for while, only to abruptly leap back into the air and swoop and soar a bit more before sitting down again. They seem to take turns doing this—three or four or a dozen birds in the nearby air at once, circling, showing off, landing…to be replaced by other birds who do the same thing; trading moves like teenagers on skateboards: Look at me! Bet you can't do this! Oh, yeah…just watch!

Masters of the sky…

Buzzards are not early risers. They hang around the roost tree until midmorning, perhaps spreading their wings and catching a few rays of sun. When the spirit finally moves them to get their feathered butts in gear and head out to reconnoiter a bite of brunch, they take off in twos and threes—though if the weather is rainy, they might hunker down for most of the day. In the afternoon, several hours before sunset, they begin returning. Definitely not workaholics.

The first year I lived here, when the buzzards and I were just getting acquainted, I kept trying to estimate their numbers. Have you ever tried to count turkey vultures on the wing—coming, going, circling, soaring, swooping, constantly trading places? Or for that matter, buzzards finally settled in on their evening roost—dark shapes, like some sort of feathered fruit, glimpsed here and there within the dense cover of leaves and limbs?

Here's the one-word answer: impossible. My best count—what I, toward the end of that first season, figured to be a pretty good guesstimate—was somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five birds. Then autumn's leaves began to fall. Talk about surprise! The count rose from twenty-five to thirty, then forty, then fifty. Down the leaves came, up the count went. Sixty, seventy, ninety…a hundred! My Lord, just how many turkey vultures were sitting over there in the denuding sycamores? I hadn't been harboring a clan, I'd been harboring a legion!

The final tally, taken on the last morning before their disappearance, was 177 turkey vultures! And I'd be willing to bet that even with most of the leaves down, I still missed a few birds—possibly more than a few.

Home before the storm.

Alas, it's again getting to be about that time of year. Too soon my beloved buzzards will up and depart. It's like losing a bunch of old friends without getting to see them off and wish them well on their journey. I'll miss them every day until they return.

And the trees and skies along the river will be palpably empty, diminished by their absence.

WAITING FOR RAIN

The sky grows dark and the buzzards come home.

I’ve spent the past half hour sitting in the rocking chair on my side-yard deck, waiting for a grumbling mass of black clouds marching in from the west to materialize into rain.

Circling a time or two…

I came outside from my study when the afternoon sunshine suddenly winked out. A transition just that abrupt…bright one moment, dark the next. A second or two later thunder rumbled in the distance.

…to show off their aerial prowess.

As a kid, I used to grab one of my mother’s quilts and head for the front porch whenever I thought a thunderstorm was imminent. Since our house faced west, the direction from which most thunderstorms came, I usually had a great view of any oncoming storm. On the downside, the porch, about an eight-by-ten foot affair sheltering the front door, had an overhanging roof but no sort of screening or sidewall protection. Hence the quilt, though that was good only for the most minor storms. I’d begin stormwatching in one of the chairs, or perhaps on the big three-cushion glider—which, in case you’re not familiar with the term, is a sort of couch that moves (glides) back-and-forth; a moving porch-seating alternative to a rocker or swing. Either place was fine so long as it was just wind coming in. But once the rains arrived, I soon had to stand and flatten myself against the wall of the house. Of course, it didn’t take much wind and blowing rain to make this refuge equally untenable…whereupon I was forced to retreat inside and do my storm watching from behind the screen door—or until rain began blowing through the mesh and onto Mom’s gleaming oak floor. At that point parental authority was invoked—the storm door was closed, the damp quilt confiscated, and I had to get my storm-watching thrills through a windowpane. However, neither maturity nor common sense has cured me from my love of storm-watching. Which is why I ensconced myself on the deck a while back with high hopes of seeing a bit of spring weather drama. The local weather oracles have been predicting rain for the past three days. Like too many modern diviners, though, they’re apparently unskilled in the foretelling arts—full of promise and short on delivery. It did rain last night, but only a little. Not enough to discolor the river or water the roses, although I have no doubt it was more than sufficient to encourage the grass to quickly grow several inches. For a while I had high hopes. The sky turned an ominous charcoal-gray, the hue of a day-old bruise. The wind was swirling around, carrying a breath of cool dampness. Four Canada geese came whipping in, honking loudly, feet out. The big birds made a noisy and not very graceful splashdown, then settled on the rocky bar just across from the cottage. They did seem encouragingly apprehensive about the coming storm, holding their heads high on upstretched necks, looking this way and that constantly. The thunder to the west grew much louder, until it became an almost a constant growling; a great angry beast just over the horizon and heading my way. More encouraging still. Then the buzzards came sailing home—coming in fast from all quadrants, swirling around a pass or two in the looming sky above the island, just enough to show off their aerial prowess, before quickly finding a sheltered roost in one of the big sycamores. Oh, ho, I thought. Here it comes! Confound it, no! A few drops pattered on the roof and deck planks. The wind began whipping the drops into my face and, more importantly, onto my camera. I momentarily deserted my post long enough to stow the photo gear just inside the cottage’s front door. The rain began pouring down…and then just quit. Staring out the opened door, I saw the sky’s dark lid slide away like an auto’s sunroof. Bright sunlight beamed down. The moistened grass sparkled…and doubtless invigorated, began instantly redoubling its growing efforts. I felt cheated, robbed of a deliciously anticipated pleasure. The turkey vultures appeared equally let down. I could see them sitting dejectedly in the top of the greening sycamores. They’d also been fooled by the muttering front—enough to come hustling home, giving up whatever roadkill or tasty bit of offal they’d planned for supper. And for what? Little more than a 20-second shower; probably not enough to wet their feathers. I waved at my black-robed neighbors across the stream. “We all got bamboozled this time around,” I called over to them. The quartet of geese on the rock bar honked noisily and took off, flapping hard to get airborne. Back inside, I reminded myself there would be other storms to watch. At least, I thought, my supper was still waiting in the kitchen.

BUNTINGS, BUZZARDS, AND MORE…OH MY!

Yesterday afternoon I glanced out my workroom window and saw a pair of male indigo buntings darting about a dandelion-infested wild corner of the yard—a first for Riversong. Not that indigo buntings are uncommon in southwestern-Ohio. However, these pretty little birds, whose namesake color is the intense blue of a northern sky, are more inclined to hang around weed field edges and brushy openings, the thickets on either side of a scrub woods. A riverine corridor is not their usual haunt. The pair were not yet done with their spring molt, as evidenced by the grayish patches on their feathers. After a minute or so they flew around the corner of the cottage and out of sight, but I did see one of them—or a different male—a few hours later. And brief as their appearance was, I’m glad to add them to the list of visitors. Not only did I see those buntings yesterday afternoon, but I managed to get my lawn mowed…with my new lawnmower! You may recall from previous postings and frequent whining that I’ve been lawnmower-less since late last fall—a fact of tactical weakness which the grass may have realized recently. Or it may have been the cool weather and ample rain that induced it to grow like gangbusters. Whatever. Things had indeed reached a critical stage hereabouts. It was either buy a mower or break out the scythe and take in hay. Not having a barn for hay storage, I opted for the lawnmower. The problem is, it has been raining here since Thursday— either as light sprinkles or full-fledged downpours until mid-morning yesterday. Even the buzzards which roost on the island across the river looked miserable—an exceptional feat for a turkey vulture, who tends to look mostly dour and grim. They'd sit atop a dripping limb, wings half opened in a vain attempt to dry out, and give me the gimlet eye whenever I looked their way—as if the rain were somehow my fault! Once the rain ceased, I removed my new mower from its shipping carton, performed the “some assembly required” tasks, checked the blade for sharpness, filled the respective tanks with oil and gasoline—then waited for the exceptionally long grass to dry out to where I thought I might get the mower through it without undue clogging. Nothing like breaking in a new machine with a maximum test. In due time the intermittent sunlight did its work…and I did mine. The days of rain have given my hostas a real boost. The first of last week their green tips were barely poking above the ground; now they’re at least a foot high. It always amazes me how much a plant can grow once it really takes off. In fact, all my plants—including the ones I planted only a week or so ago—have benefited from the rain, including the mix of seeds I sowed in the bed I built near the back door. Thousands of tiny green speckles that promise to become a knee-high thicket of various bright colors by late-June. Naturally, the river is up and muddy, though not overly so; certainly not to worrisome height. In fact, I see this morning it has already dropped 6–7 inches since yesterday afternoon, though we’re supposed to have showers later this morning. As any riverside dweller can tell you, streams are not static landscape features. The cost of those idyllic scenes of a picture-perfect creek or river is learning to live with its moods, the regular ups and downs and discolorations. On the riverbank…life is never boring.

WAKE FOR A WAKE

One of the collective nouns for a group of sitting turkey vultures is wake—as in “a wake of vultures.” Today, unfortunately, the word can also be applied in its more common usage in regards to the favorite sunbathing spot of my buzzard neighbors who roost across the river. The photo at the top of this posting was taken yesterday morning. Here’s how that same spot appears today…notice the empty space? Alas, the vultures’ preferred sun-greeting site has been cut down. Much as I hate to admit it—and as bad as I feel for the loss to the buzzards (and the handiness it was to me for taking their occasional photo)—the old sycamore had to go. The huge tree had been dead for several years. (There’s a rumor of intentional poisoning, but only speculation without proof.) You can’t tell it from the photos, but the tree actually stood between two houses, which are themselves no more than a dozen feet apart. An ancient, massive sycamore—easily six feet across at the base, maybe more, with a crown, where the vultures liked to perch, seventy feet above the base. The main trunk divided into several sub-portions about twenty feet up, and in typical sycamore fashion, numerous large limbs extended outward and upward in every direction—including over the tops of both houses. Make no mistake…this was a dangerous tree given its location and weakening structure. The tree's weight would have been measured in tons…and a considerable number, at that. Not just a tree that might just drop a big limb and damage a roof, but a tree that could quite literally crash down and flatten two houses—easily killing anyone unlucky enough to be inside at the time. Still, I hated to see the old monarch go. Short of actually counting the growth rings, I wouldn’t know how to estimate that sycamore’s age—though it was certainly in the hundreds of years. There are numerous sycamore around here and along the river; I can probably see a thousand without moving from my front deck. But this fallen giant was the king, the “big daddy” sycamore of the neighborhood. I wish it could have been saved…but cutting it down was the right thing to do. Yet I do wonder what the vultures will do. I’ve never understood why most mornings they flew across from the island, past dozens of equally suitable sycamores—huge, tall, washed by morning sun—to sit in this particular tree on my side of the river. I'm sure they had their reasons. But when the light and heat source is located 93 million miles away, why does a few hundred feet one way or the other make a difference? I wondered if they missed their favorite sunning perch this morning. So I looked and saw they were scattered in clumps or two or three birds among various trees on the island side of the river. (No need or application for a collective noun there.) And maybe they're just as happy not having to move so far for their morning sunbath. Buzzards are rather inscrutable. Nevertheless, today my black-robed neighbors and I—each in our own way—might just hold our personal memorial service for the fallen sycamore, a requiem botanica. The river which for centuries supplied water to the roots of the lamented giant can whisper a dirge…while a threnody might be furnished by the wind, which once swayed the great tree’s green branches. And come sunset, as the white-throated sparrows sings his vespers, in good and proper Irish fashion, I'll give the vanquished tree a wake.