Crows
Crows are a big presence around here, and very handsome if you like gangsters. Sleek, black and glossy, they hang around up in the field, walking bossily around, having meetings, boasting and arguing and planning what nests to rob. I prefer songbirds, but it’s not as though I have a choice: the crows are here. And I have to admire their elegant black silhouettes, their slow arrogant wingflaps. Whenever I scatter scraps out in the field, or on the lawn, the crows are there within minutes, teetering heavily on a low branch, flapping ponderously down, snatching the prize, then flapping slowly off with it. The songbirds wait meekly in the forsythia bushes until the crows are done.
Right now, at eight degrees, with six inches of frozen snow on the ground, I can’t put anything out for the smaller birds, because I have staying with me my daughter’s cat - a sweet-tempered amiable creature indoors, but outdoors a stealthy serial killer. So the birdfeeder hangs empty in the crabapple tree, and the chickadees swing mournfully by to see if some miracle has filled it.
Yesterday I decided to foil the cat and feed the birds. Up in the field I spread out a whole bagfull of birdseed, a long looping line of it scattered on the frozen snow, out in the middle of the hillside – a white wasteland where a brown-and-black tabby cat could never hide. I went back to the house and the crows came at once, settling officiously down and stalking about, spearing sunflower seeds and telling each other what they were doing.
The songbirds hung about in the bushes, surprisingly timid, and then I began to realise what I had done. I’d asked them to light on a flat and completely exposed place, with nowhere for them to hide: it was a red-tailed hawk’s dream. But there was nothing I could do about it then, the seed was already out, spread across the snow. I watched from inside as the small birds – titmice, chickadees, juncos, the pair of nervous cardinals – began to pluck up their courage. They began making daring forays, finally settling down in the snow to peck at the seed.
And sure enough, to my alarm, I saw suddenly against the snowy sky the pale tail feathers of the silent raptor, swirling down in murderous descent toward the small unwitting bodies – and then I saw the tailfeathers go swirling right back up again, harried and hounded by the resident squadron of glossy black gangsters.
Not a songbird lost.
Right now, at eight degrees, with six inches of frozen snow on the ground, I can’t put anything out for the smaller birds, because I have staying with me my daughter’s cat - a sweet-tempered amiable creature indoors, but outdoors a stealthy serial killer. So the birdfeeder hangs empty in the crabapple tree, and the chickadees swing mournfully by to see if some miracle has filled it.
Yesterday I decided to foil the cat and feed the birds. Up in the field I spread out a whole bagfull of birdseed, a long looping line of it scattered on the frozen snow, out in the middle of the hillside – a white wasteland where a brown-and-black tabby cat could never hide. I went back to the house and the crows came at once, settling officiously down and stalking about, spearing sunflower seeds and telling each other what they were doing.
The songbirds hung about in the bushes, surprisingly timid, and then I began to realise what I had done. I’d asked them to light on a flat and completely exposed place, with nowhere for them to hide: it was a red-tailed hawk’s dream. But there was nothing I could do about it then, the seed was already out, spread across the snow. I watched from inside as the small birds – titmice, chickadees, juncos, the pair of nervous cardinals – began to pluck up their courage. They began making daring forays, finally settling down in the snow to peck at the seed.
And sure enough, to my alarm, I saw suddenly against the snowy sky the pale tail feathers of the silent raptor, swirling down in murderous descent toward the small unwitting bodies – and then I saw the tailfeathers go swirling right back up again, harried and hounded by the resident squadron of glossy black gangsters.
Not a songbird lost.
posted by Roxana Robinsonat
1:40 PM 0 Comments
