SCARLET PYGMY BUZZARD RETURNS!

I almost hate to run yesterday's shot of a scarlet pygmy buzzard…aka, cardinal. Almost. But then, being the fellow who buys all those bags of sunflower seeds, why can't I poke a bit of fun at one of my favorite freeloading birds? 

We all tend to take ourselves too seriously sometimes—both redbirds and redbird watchers. I say life is better faced with a no-holds-barred sense of humor.

Besides, I've had my own share of less than flattering photos taken. Snaps I'd like to obliterate forever from the public record. Moreover, in a few days hence, this cocky old redbird will again be fully feathered out, struttin' his stuff and no longer mortified by his bald pate—and I'll have to go back to ridiculing the squirrels.

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RARE SCARLET-PHASE PIGMY VULTURE?

"Monday, Monday," sang Mama Cass, "Can't trust that day…"

But if you thought your Monday turned out bad, just look at this rare scarlet-phase pigmy vulture…a.k.a. plain old cardinal.

What a difference a few feathers makes!

You have to wonder what this normally natty ol' redbird would think if he could see himself in a mirror. Would he be aghast? Would he try and roost with the buzzards in the sycamores across on the island? Do chickadees flee in terror while pileated woodpeckers double over in laughter every time they see his ugly mug?

Molting is such a drag. No wonder most of his feather-regenerating time is spent hiding in the underbrush. Yet a feller has to eat; the occasional daylight foraging excursion must be made…and as luck would have it, there's always some member of the paparazzi waiting to snap your photo and slap the unflattering shot up on the Internet. Just ask those chagrined movie and T.V. folk who simply popped out for a double dip of Häagen-Dazs ice cream, sans makeup, comb-over, and tummy-tucking jeans, and a week later found full-page screaming color images of their sorry-looking selves plastered all over the supermarket tabloids.

Of course it doesn't help when one assumes a doltish, rather guilty expression. Where's that noble redbird visage—the patrician beak, the regal eyes, the striking red-and-black neck and facial cloak, the glorious crest? Who's the doofus with an oversized honker worthy of a parrot?

I almost feel ashamed posting this…almost. But hey, it could be worse—the vulture look could be permanent instead of just temporary. Count your blessing!

Now, if I were you, I'd skedaddle back into the underbrush.

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A DUSTING OF SNOW…

According to local weather reports, it's snowing at this very moment practically everywhere but here along the river. I've not yet witnessed a single falling flake with my own eyes…and I've been looking. There is, however, a bit of snow on the ground, the lightest of dustings, just enough to add some white to the raked piles of sycamore leaves I hadn't gotten around to hauling to the mulch pile before I got sick. Still, I've seen plenty of frosts do a better job covering the ground with white.

As I write, the temperature stands at 27˚F, which is only marginally warmer than it was when I went out in the feeble dawn light to feed the loudmouthed ducks their scoops of cracked corn. Actually, it's the white ducks who cut such a rusty; the mallards are more polite, less demanding—though just are ready for breakfast.

The river looks wintery today, falling snow or not—greenish-blue, lots of grays, a pewter sky and all the leaning sycamores whiter than any icicle. There are baubles of ice in the shallows—bits and pieces formed on leaves and weed stems. Some mid-riffle sticks and bits of debris wear an icy overcoat. There are a few of what I call "ice bells" along the bank.

The birds are busy working the feeders, perhaps twenty species all told. A nice variety, though nothing unusual. I can count seven male cardinals sitting in the same small tree, as brilliant as a handful of rubies flung against the chilled pale backdrop of winter. Lovely.

The weather folks say there's a 40 percent chance of snow all day. I'd like to see a bit—the actuality rather than just the aftermath. My plans are to build a fire, finish decorating the Christmas tree, and catch up with some indoor chores. I'm still not completely over whatever I had, still fighting a persistent cough. Falling snow would finish the overall mood of a quite, snug, riverbank Monday rather nicely, don't you think?

BAD FEATHER DAY

Beauty is only skin deep…or in some cases, feather deep. At least if you’re a male cardinal caught in the embarrassing throes of an unusual molt.

The goofy-looking redbird, which could almost have been mistaken for a scarlet-plumed pigmy vulture, appeared at the feeder outside my study window yesterday morning. The light was low, but I didn’t figure I had time to change settings on the camera or grab a tripod—so I snapped a quick shot and hoped for the best. The result isn’t the best of photos, but it’s certainly sufficient to reveal the usually handsome and cocky cardinal at his decidedly unflattering worst.

I actually felt rather bad about making his portrait. Like I’d become a member of the paparazzi who lurks outside the doors of fancy hotels or gated mansions in the Hollywood Hills, shooting pictures for the tabloids of movie stars when they’re overweight, without makeup—or in the case of more than a few men—lack the masculine mental-reenforcing enhancement of a toupee.

Had I joined the ornithological version of the gutter press?

This cardinal definitely got caught away from the thicket without his hairpiece…er-r-r, featherpiece. And since the single most defining feature of a cardinal—male or female—is their crest, I can see where such a loss might lead to temporary insecurity issues. The bird did seem extra jumpy, looking nervously around before snatching a sunflower seed; and maybe, too, a little angry, put upon, as if life had treated this poor old redbird unfairly.

Well, maybe he had a point.

According to June Osborn, in her book The CardniaI, published by the University of Texas press, such a complete loss of feathers over a single area is not the norm. Usually cardinals molt via a gradual process—a few feathers from here, others from there, leaving enough plumage for protection and the power of flight.

Of course a bald pate wasn’t going to prevent this fellow from flying…but such a thorough, single-area loss was not how the change to new feathers is typically made. For a proud bird, it had to be awkward if not humiliating. I had to sympathize.

The good part is that the loss will be temporary; give it another week or two and that red-coated fellow can strut his stuff in brand new attire.

But just remember, the bad part is…I do have the picture.

FLIRTY REDBIRD?

What does it take to frame a day? To establish a certain tone or mood, affecting all that follows, if only in a minor way?

For me, it can be the simple glory of a shaft of golden sunlight pouring through the sycamores. The ringing hoot of a distant barred owl. Milkweed’s sweet scent carried on a July breeze.

Sometimes this setting-up occurs in a moment—within the fleeting space of an event so ephemeral and otherwise insignificant, it could almost be mistaken for a leftover fragment of dream. Something imagined, seen or experienced only in the interior world of the mind’s eye.

When determining which side of the fantasy-reality fence to place such a transitory moment, it often helps considerably to have a photograph. Unless you believe in psychokinetic photography, a photo in hand means you can trust your memory: you saw what you thought you saw; what you remember happening did happen.

A few minutes ago I was sitting on my deck-side bench, taking a bit of sun and nursing a post-noon cup of coffee. The river chuckled along a few yards away—still muddy from Saturday’s rain, though now back to nearly normal pool.

Something fluttered nearby.

When I looked, I saw a female cardinal sitting less than a yard away. The bird was perched on a limestone block left over from a small project yesterday. So close I could have reached out and touched her.

She seemed unafraid, and gave me a quick, quizzical eye. Then, as if to say Hey, how do you like my hairdo? the cardinal raised her crest. I couldn’t help but grin at her punk rocker look.

Was this a feathered chimera or a corporeal cardinal? A spirit entity or real gal redbird trying to charm me where I sat?

Without moving anything except a fingertip, I pressed the shutter on the camera in my lap, which happened to be pointed in the right direction; auto-focus and auto-exposure, along with pure luck, did the rest. The lens was cranked out to wide-angle, so I had to spin and crop the image.

The bird remained a moment more…just long enough to smooth everything back in place. Then she looked around, glanced up at me again, and flew away. I felt the air moved by her wings on my wrist.

Say what you will, blame it on male ego, but I think that little redbird was flirting with me. If so, I'm flattered. A cute coquette always trumps caffeine for making a guy's day!

ONE MORNING'S BIRDS

Call this the morning’s photographic bird report. All the images in this posting were taken within the space of perhaps thirty minutes. (You can double-click to see them larger, of course.) The session began when I stepped outside to scatter cracked corn for my geese couple who—barely past dawn—were already standing in the yard, impatient to be served. You can’t keep geese waiting. Naturally, the untrusting Canadas flew off the instant I opened the door. These are wild birds, more or less, though they seem to be learning to tolerate my presence. Instead of flying across the river or even farther, they simply glided over the bank to the water, where they bobbed on the current, honking loudly, while keeping a watchful eye on my corn tossing. I pitched out a scoop of yellow grain and picked up my camera for a quick shot. Before I could frame and shoot the geese, I heard a duck quacking upstream. A female mallard was standing on a rock, calling to the drake to get over there and keep her company. I snapped her portrait first, then turned and took a shot of the geese. Looking around, I noticed a few turkey vultures sitting in the tops of some trees across the river beyond the island, testing their wings, waiting for the climbing sun to warm them up before they began their day's scavenging flights. The big birds were located perhaps 250 feet away. Much too distant for more than a mediocre shot. The buzzards are only recently returned from their winter vacations in the South. In fact, these birds are just the early arrivals, a fraction of the 175—200 number of the spring-through-autumn flock that typically roosts in the tops of the island’s big sycamores. The full group won’t manage to get themselves assembled for several more weeks. After a few additional shots—of sunlight on trees, a cloud or two, and crocus biding their time until a higher sun triggered their opening—I figured I’d go back inside and let the geese have at their breakfast. So I headed down the hall to my workroom to check e-mail and upload my photos. I hadn't yet plugged the camera into the computer when I looked out the window and saw a Cooper’s hawk sitting on the stump end of the old Christmas tree, which I recycle as a handy refuge for just this reason: when the hawk suddenly appears, the ground feeders—sparrows, wrens, doves, etc.—have a nearby hidey-hole. (I posted about this in January, REFUGE…NOT REFUSE! here) Some days, when I’m working long hours at my desk and happen to look up at the right moments, I watch the fleeing birds use this hideout tree two or three different times. The wily hawk makes regular rounds and repeats its visits throughout the day. Most times, the tree-hidden birds outsmart the Cooper’s, flying out one side while their would-be killer pokes his hooked beak in the other. A few days ago, though, I saw the hawk plunge into the Christmas tree and come out with a titmouse in his talons. Still, the recycled Christmas tree saves a lot of lives—and I’m glad I didn’t decide to move it yesterday when I spent a few hours giving the yard a spring raking. The final shot, taken perhaps two minutes after the hawk’s (victimless) departure, was of a perky cardinal at the feeder just beyond my workroom window. Here along the river, the redbirds are whistling longer and louder with each passing day: “Spring is here, the sun is shining, and all you lucky ladybirds can’t possibly fail to notice what a handsome fellow I am in my bright scarlet feathers!”

HOPE WEARS RED FEATHERS

“Hope,” wrote Emily Dickinson, “is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune…” In today’s case, hope’s personification is a sassy cardinal attired in bright scarlet, perched on a branch near the feeding station. All morning he has been singing: “What cheer, cheer, cheer! What cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer!” There can be no doubt the news is encouraging when old Mr. Redbird rears back and rings out his message. “What cheer, cheer, cheer!” His positive outlook and enthusiastic proclamation is contagious. “What cheer, cheer, cheer!” For months now, all I’ve heard from the gaudy cardinals have been their usual, “Purrt! Purrt! Purrt!” as they went about their business nabbing a few sunflower seeds from the basket feeder, or pecking at cracked corn scattered on the ground. But now the redbird’s song is one of procreation. Spring is there, not too great a distance over the seasonal horizon, and it’s inexorably heading our way. The cardinal knows. Moreover, he intends getting the word out. “What cheer, cheer, cheer!” The weatherman says we’ll be getting several inches of snow over the next few days. Such dire predictions have not dampened the redbird’s buoyant spirits one iota. That colorful ol’ bird began singing at daylight, and has continued his upbeat recital every hour since. I’d be willing to wager he’ll carry on the concert when the air is thick with snowflakes, and after the ground has a fluffy new blanket of pristine white. Hope has filled my ears all morning, and now it fills my heart. “What cheer, cheer, cheer!”