Ground-Feeders

The snow was so deep that I had to put on my rain wellies to keep my socks dry when I went outside to feed the birds Friday evening. Thursday, I had added a big scoop of sunflower seed to the main feeder and jerry-rigged a broken suet feeder so the more adventuresome woodpeckers (we get many down woodpeckers at the feeders) could stop pecking at the treated post and eat suet, instead. I have a third feeder that holds thistle for the smallest birds, clingers, like wrens and finches. But by Friday afternoon, the sunflower seed was nearly gone and the ground-feeders were on the hunt.

Juncos are ground-feeders who adore thistle. They stray from the feeders and come hang out on the porch, looking for seed. So, of course I put a little out there for the pleasure of both the birds and our (indoor) cat.

Here's a junco. They're pretty cute. (From Ohio-Nature.com--I couldn't get a good shot through the window.)

The masses of birds (cardinals, juncos, woodpeckers, pigeons, tufted titmice, plus one squirrel) were the first thing I noticed when I looked out of the window at 6:45 a.m. Sure, there was plenty of snow. But substantial snow cover means ground feeders can't find food easily. I feed birds all year round, though winter and nest-building season in early spring are the busiest times. I used to stress out about feeding too many squirrels. Honestly, we don't have that many that hang around the feeders. With 12 acres of woods, and plenty of forest around us, we get only the lazy few near the house. What I do mind are the chipmunks and moles who tunnel all around our house and yard (and in my garden!), drawn by the grubs that feed on whatever the birds leave behind. A few years back we had a professional mole trapper come, but after he charged us $250 for catching 10 or so, he gave up, saying that he could never make them all go away because of the huge population. I deal with them tunnel by tunnel when they show up in the spring.

I was glad I'd banked up the feeders Thursday since I didn't care much for going outside on Friday. My obsessive driveway scraping rather wore me out so that I started dreaming where I was sitting Thursday night around 10:30. At one point Friday afternoon I was trying to remember where I'd seen lines of men in gray overcoats carrying giant, yellow, symbol-covered, triangular traffic signs in their arms as they paraded up and down a city street. Then I remembered that brief dream.

I wrote some fiction, finishing up a chapter that will be in a book that will eventually be another BLISS HOUSE novel. (BLISS HOUSE is a fictional, haunted Virginia house built after the Civil War. It is stuffed full of stories, and I'm not sure how many novels it will take to tell them all.) I've been struggling all week to get a good solid block of writing time in, and I finally did. In order to do it, I had to turn off my phone for 3 hours. I thought it might kill me, but I did it! And it was definitely worth it.

So, the birds are fed and the pages are written. For now. It was a good day.

Below is a gratuitous pic of Miss Nina, our cat, as she looks out for birds in the snow. I posted it on Facebook, but I like it so much, I wanted to share it here, too. Plus, it looks like she's balancing a tree on her nose, which is all kinds of awesome.

--L.

(Fiction words written today: 1296)

The Nest

Last summer a house wren nested on our front porch in one of the empty planters on top of the potting table. It wasn't a terribly organized nest, but it was in a corner, high off of the ground, and so was pretty safe. I spent a fun morning watching the fledglings flinging themselves about the porch, trying to figure out how to fly. It only took a couple of hours, then all but one was gone.

I found that single fledgling nearly drowned in the birdbath, poor thing. I plucked it out and set it--soaked and shivering--in the empty nest. After it rested for a few hours it, too, took off.

This year a house wren has nested in a basket of white impatiens hanging from the porch's eave. It took her almost two weeks to build the nest. For a long time I thought she was just sleeping in the foliage at night, but then a couple of the plants died off, replaced by a cavity nest full of tiny eggs.

Best that I can tell, there are three babies. When I approached the nest today to see how they were doing, the one right at the opening reflexively opened its mouth to be fed. I can imagine it was disappointed when I returned with a camera instead of regurgitated worms.

I love how the cavity nest surrounds the birds, protecting them from the weather and any predators that might be in the neighborhood. They're growing so quickly that they're already close to filling up the space. It won't be long before the babies and their mother are gone, leaving me to wonder where I'll discover a nest next summer.

Serendipity

CALLING MR LONELY HEARTS, the novel I'm working on now, is filled with birds. I'm not sure how they came to be there, or why. I could explore the subject, but I'd rather leave it for a reader to discover. Writers are notoriously bad diviners of meaning in their work.

I love wild birds. I keep the feeders outside our house filled with black oil sunflower seed for most, and one filled with thistle for the finches. We have no cats, so they can feed here in relative safety. Occasionally, one will knock itself out by flying into a nearby window; I cringe when I hear that telltale "thump" on the glass, but don't go and look right away because I know I'll want to immediately dash out and do something (touch it, pick it up, cuddle it in a towel and bring it inside--all bad ideas). Most times the bird is just stunned and recovers itself quickly. Sometimes it dies. Birds seem so fragile to me.

Owls and other birds of prey are particularly significant in CMLH. What is it that makes owls so appealing, I wonder? Perhaps it's their enormous eyes (up to 5%) of their body weight, or their apparent unflappability. The other night I came home to a barred owl sitting on our front gate. I stopped the car only twenty or so feet away and watched it--as it watched me. We watched one another for a good two or three minutes before it opened its broad wings and flew off into the field. I felt strangely blessed by its presence.

This past week I worked on a particularly difficult section of the book that had a scene with many, many owls. I spent several hours imagining what it would be like to surrounded by them. I did the usual Internet reading, gathering facts to make the scene more realistic. Then, yesterday morning, I turned on the television to make sure church hadn't been canceled (it was snowy), and there was a wildlife guy on some morning show who had three owls he'd brought for the cameras. He mentioned one or two things I hadn't already discovered, including the fact that the tiny screech owl can be prey for a larger bird, like the Great Horned Owl. That disturbed me. But it was an excellent reminder to eschew sentimentality when it comes to wild things. Owls are birds of prey, after all. Not pets. The notion that creatures will often prey on smaller, weaker versions of their own kind is one that a writer (particularly a thriller writer) can't afford to forget.