Darling Daughter and I decided a long time ago that we
should have been wildlife biologists. Watching wildlife of all sorts in their
daily travails is better than soap opera TV. We decided that last spring when,
while taking a sit-down break from the spring yard cleaning, we noticed some
birds circle overhead. And they weren’t just circling, they were flying like
they were in an airborne NASCAR race. “What are they doing,” we wondered. A few
minutes of observation answered the question. The two subjects were
woodpeckers. One was a girl. One was a boy. It was spring. But apparently, he
had something on his mind that she did not favor. After a half hour of wheeling
around my little oak tree patch, the two, who were not necessarily love birds,
flew off to the woods. We could only hope he went to buy a diamond ring, but I
couldn’t figure out how a woodpecker could get down on one knee to propose. I
don’t think birds have knees, do they?
Birds have become a new hobby for the semi-retired me. I
love sitting out on the back porch watching their soap opera antics in the
early morning or on a just-before-sunset evening. Trying to figure out what
bird is what, and what they think they are doing, is a fascinating hobby.
Although I must report I had to tell two wood thrushes (I think that’s what
they were) to “Get a room!” Those two made soap operas look tame.
The next bird to show up was, according to my bird book, a
tufted titmouse. How this pretty little thing got such a strange name is a
mystery. The tiny tufted titmouse is a joy to watch, especially since this
family was nesting in my backyard shed. Mom and dad, I presume, were constantly
in and out, feeding a rather large family. And they came to the bird feeder
quite often, after eyeing me to determine if I was a threat. Must have been a
bunch of babies in the shed. But they are gone now. Babies must have grown up and
flown the nest.
Don’t have to be in the back yard to watch the bird soaps.
Across from the office in Sallisaw is a large tree. This tree provided homes for
two families – mockingbirds and scissor-tailed flycatchers, our state’s main
bird. But dad mockingbird and dad flycatcher did not get along. It was a
constant squabble that made soap operas boring. The dads occasionally went at
each other feet first with tiny talons extended as though they were going to
fight to the death. It was amazing. They never once hurt each other. Food, of
course, was at the center of the bird squabble. The fly catcher lives up to its
name. It perches on the overhead power and phone lines, searching for insects,
and, when a flying insect is spotted, flycatcher takes to the air, and can
hover (wow) while snapping up the tiny morsel. But mockingbird wanted some of
the action, and the two birds often sat side by side, up in the air on those lines,
both seeking the same lunch, and eyeing each other with chests puffed up. But a
mockingbird hunts differently from the flycatcher. He waited till the insect
landed and went after dinner like a bulldozer. Dinner in hand, or mouth I
should say, mockingbird would fly back to that neighborhood high rise, the tree
across the street, to feed the family.
Back in my own backyard, the crow family has already been
reported on. I’ve fed them ever since I saw them, so now they like to visit
where I’ve thrown the leftovers out. My crows can out do the flycatcher when it
comes to cats. Guess I’ll start calling them the cat-catchers because they have
run ever neighborhood cat out of the neighborhood. But just last week one
perched in a backyard tree out of my sight. He didn’t know I was there, but I
could hear every call he made. And oh my, can crows talk. On and on and on he
went, telling some sort of rumor story to his fellow crows. I wish I could
understand what it was all about. I finally had to go peek around the corner of
the house to make sure it was a crow I was listening to. Yep, but as soon as he
saw me he was gone. Hey! I’m the lady with the food! I wish I knew what the
story was. I like to think it was like that old telephone game, when the rumor
is repeated so often, the first story is nothing like the end story. On the
other hand, I bet that crow got the whole story right.
And then there was the attack of the hummingbird. Being tiny
does not mean a lack of heroism. This tiny guy got upset with me one day, maybe
because I hadn’t filled the feeders, and flew right down in my face and told me
what he thought of the empty cupboard nose to nose. I confess. That hummingbird
ran me out of my own backyard. But, the hummingbird feeders have been full ever
since. And just last week, that hummingbird and (would you believe) a butterfly
had a confrontation in my tiny flower garden. Hummer won of course, and won
flower-nectar sipping rights. After one of our wind storms this summer, I found
a tiny hummingbird nest on the ground under a tree. I hope the family had
already left, and none were injured in the storm. I’m keeping that nest. It is
a treasure, just like all those birding observations made on a summer day in
the back yard.
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