DECEMBER

Full Cycle

I JUST CHECKED MY MAILBOX and I am now heading up the driveway when I see my neighbor Lily. She calls hello as she navigates her frozen lawn. I’m happy to see her and ask how she has been. I mention that things are going well for Heather and me. Lily always keeps me informed about the latest news around town and in the neighborhood. We share a few laughs, and before we part, she asks two questions: “Why were you staring up at the branches over your driveway a few days ago? What was so fascinating?”

I can see by her wry smile that she is no doubt amused by my odd behavior. But she seems interested, so I tell her I was probably looking at birds, as usual. I point to a leafless branch above us and explain that blue jays like to land there to scout things out before approaching the fly-through feeder. They first check for danger—mainly, cats and dogs.

Lily tells me about the different birds she has seen and identified. She recently watched a movie about a guy who traveled all over the globe looking for birds to tick off his bucket list. She asks whether I keep a tally of my birds.

I say that I don’t keep track so much these days. I’d rather observe, appreciate, and understand the bird life around me. For example, I mention the owls I heard hooting last night. In a few weeks, they will become even more vocal, as their breeding season begins. I then warn her that if she hears hooting late some night, not to assume it’s the real thing. Against my better judgment, I reveal that it might just be me calling them into the yard. Laughing, I tell her that Heather says all the neighbors think I’m crazy anyway for doing such things.

Lily reassures me that people don’t really look at it that way and that my passion for birds has got them all interested. Now their eyes have been opened to the wildlife all around them. If I can call in owls, then maybe she’ll bring her grandchildren over to watch. She thinks the sight of a wild owl flying up close in the moonlight would be awesome.

Clutching my handful of mail, I wave good-bye and tell her I’ll call the owls anytime for her grandkids.

I settle down inside with a mug of hot chocolate to look over the mail, but my attention is diverted to the fly-through feeder, which my neighbor Dave has filled to the tipping point. Right now, there are birds everywhere—chickadees, titmice, and nuthatches—and all are swarming over the seed. Up in the trees, two mourning doves are now positioning themselves as they look down for a good place to land. Big, bold blue jays are swooping in, scattering seeds as they land, which in turn attracts the white-throated sparrows and dark-eyed juncos. Soon, I hear other jays screaming, and in a minute, there are more. I count five in the trees, two at the feeder, and one flying in from across the neighborhood. I see a total of seven different species on the feeder at the same time. They are coming and going like bees in and out of a hive.

I watch closely for anything rare that might be up in the trees or feeding on the ground. Perhaps, if I am lucky, I will see a visitor from the far north. I know of one such winter visitor that might stop here. It lives just two hundred miles to our north, and it is a bird that is so vibrant and beautiful that it appears to carry the sun within its breast. It has bright yellow feathers that contrast sharply with its black-and-white wings and tail. A heavy beak gives it the apropos moniker—grosbeak.

The evening grosbeak—a somewhat common breeding bird in northern New England’s mixed forests of birch, maple, spruce, and fir—is a rare sight here in southern Connecticut. In the north woods, where forests stretch for miles and swift-flowing trout streams run pure and cold beneath towering fragrant spruce, the evening grosbeak’s clear call notes seem to define the still-unspoiled country. The north woods are a favorite place of mine, and the evening grosbeak is one of the reasons.

My hopes climb high as I anticipate that grosbeaks, in search of food, will irrupt in large nomadic flocks into our region when winter approaches. Grosbeaks, like other winter finches, sometimes appear during the dead of winter. They arrive not to escape the bitter weather but, like the red-breasted nuthatch, to find food during widespread shortages in the north. The last major irruption of the winter finch was in 1997–1998, when record numbers of pine siskins, crossbills, and pine grosbeaks invaded the Northeast. There have been several smaller irruptions since then.

Data suggest that a loose pattern exists in these irruptions. They fluctuate on a cycle, with large-scale irruptions followed by quiet years with few sightings. Last year, we did not see historic irruptions in New England, although pine grosbeaks appeared in Litchfield County, and red-winged crossbills were on the coast. This year, red-breasted nuthatches have already shown up across the region, indicating a potential irruption later. Yet from what I gather about seed and cone crops to our north, seed shortages are anticipated in Western Quebec, which means that most finches and nuthatches will probably irrupt into Southern Ontario and the Great Lakes states.

According to various winter bird counts, the evening grosbeak hasn’t made much of an appearance in my region recently. Patience is extremely important when it comes to grosbeaks. It can be years between sightings, but when you see these birds, you never forget it. I vividly remember the surprise I experienced on opening my window shade one morning and finding a flock of grosbeaks devouring sunflower seeds. I could immediately see that these were no ordinary feeder birds. I distinctly remember their animated and contorted postures as they aggressively competed with one another for seeds using their strong, thick beaks.

I have heard that these birds relish cherry pits, but any kind of sunflower seed will excite them. Therefore, I focus on making the seeds visible to their nomadic flocks. Grosbeaks often flock at the tops of trees, and then they wisp off for distant lands. Grabbing their attention is all you can hope for. Fortunately, two grosbeak strategies seem to have worked for me: watching my feeders early in the morning and using large tray feeders that are visible from afar. Grosbeaks, like other birds, are active at dawn, and their appearance at sunrise can easily be missed. Who knows how many birders have had evening grosbeaks at their feeders and never knew it?

As I mentioned, flight years, or winter irruptions, happen when the birds cannot find sufficient food within their expected range. For each species, however, the occurrence of an irruption is different because diets vary. A poor yield from birch trees produces a low catkin (seed) crop and results in an invasion of redpolls. Low numbers of spruce cone seeds send down flocks of red- and white-winged crossbills. Evening grosbeaks may turn up in great numbers when a combination of high populations and poor seed yields coincides with ice storms, which freeze their food.

Surprisingly, a few winter finches can be found in Connecticut during the breeding season, but their presence here is rare. The evening grosbeaks may nest in secrecy up in Connecticut’s hill towns, but these high hills and quiet forested acres are the only places where they’ve been documented. Purple finches, in contrast, are more widespread. They have been reported in most counties throughout the state but are still considered uncommon nesters.

In Massachusetts, where the elevation rises above two thousand feet, there are reports of crossbills nesting. These reports do not come from observations made in the spring or summer but rather in the cold of winter. Crossbills are highly dependent on spruce for seed and can be stimulated into nesting when this food source is abundant. This results in their breeding without regard for the normal cues—increased light and rising temperatures. This may seem highly unusual, but other species, such as some birds of prey, nest during the winter, too.

Every winter, I hope for the arrival of these species, but I know it is difficult to predict. Some are more common than others; for example, the red-breasted nuthatch nests in Connecticut and is likely to turn up at least once during the season. The pine siskin is also a likely visitor; I’ve been told by several birders that a few were reported about forty miles west of here. Later in the winter, there will probably be more, and some years I hear reports from members of the Connecticut Ornithological Association of enormous flocks hanging out near evergreens or well-stocked bird feeders. I have never seen more than four or five at a time here, and I have never seen a redpoll at my feeder, but redpolls eventually seem to show up somewhere in western Connecticut. Crossbills are less likely to make an appearance, and pine grosbeaks are rare, too. Incidentally, the red-breasted nuthatch, as you might guess, is not a true finch but is grouped in with them because of its tendency to experience irruptive cycles. All the winter finches, except for the pine siskin, are colorful, visually exciting birds to experience on a cold winter day. I think crossbills are especially beautiful because of their somewhat unusual body form. I love the way they feed in different positions. The red coloring, large head, and massive beak seem so strikingly novel. Pine grosbeaks are equally beautiful due to their feathers of burgundy, slate, and mauve. I have seen a few in my lifetime, and each time their beauty takes my breath away. These are large, tame, and slow-moving birds from the far wilderness. Although fond of sunflower seeds, they prefer not to frequent feeders and may instead be found on crab apple or other fruit trees.

Unlike evening grosbeaks, pine grosbeaks have remained stable in their range over the decades, without any dramatic expansions or declines. When first described by the early naturalists in the 1800s, the evening grosbeak was essentially a Western species. Slowly, it made its way east. By 1880, it had been recorded in the Great Lakes region, and by 1910, it found its way into New England. Large numbers were seen beginning in 1942, but like other winter finches, the occurrence of the species varied from year to year. Eventually, the winter appearance of the evening grosbeak was taken for granted. Large flocks, sometimes in the hundreds, regularly showed up at feeders across Connecticut. Then, about forty years ago, these birds began to decline in number.

I have often wondered whether evening grosbeaks were named for the colors on their back—the hues of dusk that somehow fade from sunset gold into the black of night. I tend to think they were because, even though both the common name and scientific name—Coccothraustes vespertinus—suggest the vesper or hour of the setting sun, the evening grosbeak is rarely active in the evening. Instead, this much-anticipated winter finch is a bird of the morning and noontime hours, retiring to the treetops to perch and preen before day’s end. I consider myself very lucky to have seen them here at my feeder in past years.

IT IS MIDMORNING ON A cold, sunny Saturday. I have the day to enjoy and decide on a short hike. I’ve walked well past the rock pile, making my way deeper into my woodlot. I spot a robin perched on a rotting stump at the edge of a small clearing. I can recognize it by its posture or silhouette. It’s hard to forget the way a robin holds itself—not a common bird like that. There must be more of them wintering over nearby because I don’t think conditions are all that suitable for them here.

When I think of winter-weather birds, cardinals, chickadees, titmice, and downy woodpeckers come to mind. Yet many birds associated with warm summer days, such as bluebirds, hermit thrushes, and this robin here, are actually part of the winter scene. It is hard to believe, I know, but these songbirds find ways to survive the harsh Connecticut winter.

Although each has its own unique survival strategies, all make one important transition when cold weather settles in: they switch from eating insects to fruit. The reason most people hardly know of their presence during the winter is because they retreat into the wetlands or deep thickets. This is especially true of the secretive hermit thrush. Every year, a few hermit thrushes stop here during fall migration and decide to stay in what is the northern limit of their winter range. I look for them where groves of sumac, bittersweet, dogwood, poison ivy, pokeberry, wild apple, red cedar, or almost any other fruit tree grows.

I sometimes find bluebirds hiding in these groves, too. The sighting of a bluebird is thought to be a sure sign of spring, but most don’t leave their breeding range in the winter. Bluebirds are facultative migrants, which means they move south only during extreme weather or food shortages. My bluebirds leave in September for some local destination, but they will occasionally return to the yard for a brief visit during the winter.

Bluebirds, like all wintering birds, have many survival strategies. One strategy I’ve mentioned that bluebirds are known for is huddling. Many species, including chickadees, employ this effective strategy. Chickadees flock together at roosting time and crowd their way into tree cavities or nesting boxes, where the group’s body heat warms the interior sufficiently.

During the day, birds take advantage of the sun’s energy, no matter how faint and far off it may be, by simply perching in direct sunlight. By turning their backs to the sun while spreading out their wings a bit, they can maximize their surface area, allowing more of their bodies to absorb the energy. I have not seen many birds do this because it is cloudy here in New England a good part of the winter.

But fluffing is a common sight during cold weather. It is an extremely effective way to keep warm; it creates air space between the feathers, allowing birds to retain much of their body heat. Anybody who has ever owned a down coat knows that feathers have outstanding insulative properties. In fact, a robin can reduce its loss of body heat by 40 percent simply by fluffing its feathers. Tucking legs or beaks under fluffed feathers takes the strategy a step further.

You can’t witness a bird shiver without being extremely close to it. Yet birds do it to increase their heat production—up to five times higher than the normal resting state. The fancy word for this is thermogenesis. It works on the same principle as it does for humans. Like us, when birds get cold, their skeletal muscles are activated, and a significant amount of heat is generated by the energy expended to move these muscles. Humans and birds do share many attributes. After all, we share a common ancestor somewhere way back in time.

To me, the amazing part is how birds keep their feet from freezing. I would think that this thin, exposed part of the body would be the most vulnerable and would be a wintering bird’s biggest setback. But birds’ feet stay well protected in the cold. In fact, their thin, delicate design limits heat loss. Evolution has given birds the ability to control the temperature in their feet. The entire venous system in their feet is set up to moderate extreme temperatures. Simply put, the veins and arteries are aligned so that heated blood from the bird’s core passes through a lace-like network, with the cooler blood returning from the extremities. It’s a kind of countercurrent exchange that keeps the blood flow moving in either direction.

The individual decisions that a bird makes to survive the cold are the most fascinating. Carolina wrens are a great example. They are curious; I have had one fly inside the house to explore and another watch me while I cleared snow off my car. Now, I have one who has been living in my garage for several weeks. She greets me in the morning and welcomes me home at night. Sometimes, she sees it fit to sing me a note. I get all of this attention for having simply ignored a tiny hole in my garage door, which she discovered and entered, enabling her to escape from the bitterly cold winter.

Inside my garage, this tiny brown bird has found shelter from the arctic winds and single-digit temperatures that will soon be here. Outside the garage, many of her kind will succumb to the elements. This little wren spends a good part of the daylight in the garage, too. I have seen her picking at vacant spiderwebs in search of food. Who knows how many spiders and insects propagated in that garage during warm weather? There must be plenty of spider eggs and dormant life-forms for her in there now. I bet these convenient food sources will make good supplements when the snow covers the ground.

This is significant because, this winter, the scarcity of available food, rather than the cold, will pose a problem for the wrens. Any heavy snowfall insulates the birds and shields them from the wind while they roost, but it will be difficult for them to find food that is covered by so much snow. If wintering Carolina wrens have an ample food supply, their bodies have enough fuel to keep warm. Cold, snowy days make life difficult for all wintering birds, but the one thing that can stop them dead is an ice storm. Ice renders all food inaccessible to birds.

Wintering over is risky, but the trend for robins suggests that it is worth the hardship. The Connecticut Audubon Society’s Christmas Bird Count consistently reported one thousand robins each winter, until the 1970s, when the number began to increase sharply. Today, there are more than forty-five thstare at it, squintingousand robins wintering over in Connecticut. It is worth it for the survivors because they get first claims on the best breeding territories.

Earlier this year, I discovered robins concentrated along the Salmon River, where I went fishing on opening day. They were resting along a bend where a pool of open water had formed in a puddle of light. There were hundreds, it seemed, hunkered down along a steep, sunny, south-facing hillside. Standing thigh-deep in snow, I simply closed my eyes, listened to their familiar call notes, and pretended it was a warm spring day. I imagined the day when the snow would melt, enticing these songbirds to emerge from the impenetrable riparian thickets, a day when hermit thrushes fly north, robins return to the lawns, and bluebirds head back to the gardens.

I’M AT THE FAR END OF MY property now, and at my feet are two large owl pellets. I believe I’ve just found the barred owl’s roost. Looking high up into the scaffolding of oak branches, I notice an irregular shape along the trunk of a giant white oak. I stare at it for several seconds. It isn’t moving, but it somehow isn’t still. It must be the barred owl, but I can’t quite make it out. Suddenly, it appears—a recognizable object—and then I see feathers ruffling ever so gently in the breeze.

I stare at it, squinting, straining, focusing, and refocusing. It is well camouflaged, its barred chest blending in with the trunk of the tree. It is close to the trunk, about sixty feet up this old oak. It isn’t active, save for the occasional ruffling of feathers, and its eyes are shut. It is fast asleep and unconcerned.

I know a sight like this is uncommon, so I stay where I am with my eyes on the owl. I wonder if it will be discovered by other birds. I wonder how long it can roost in the exposure of a deciduous tree. How long before a chickadee on sentinel duty for dangerous predators finds it and initiates a mob scene? But no birds are present. It seems it is just the owl and me in the winter silence.

Although I would like to see the owl drop from the roost, span its massive wings, and glide back up to another branch, I realize that disturbing it will probably keep it from roosting there again. It would probably mean detection, too. A watchful chickadee would surely spot it then, and before long, dozens of angry, nervous birds would be all over it. Blue jays, crows, and every small bird in the area would scold it relentlessly for the remainder of the morning. The smaller birds always work together as a mob to drive away large raptors. So I let it roost, watch it sleep, and commit the tree to memory.

Instead of walking back through my woodlot the way I came, I decide to head toward the northern corner of my land and follow Treasure Run. It will bring me out near Heather’s Meadow if I choose to cross it, or if I follow it on this side, I will arrive at the cul-de-sac and Elephant Rock. I’m in a part of the woods that I don’t frequent. Here, I notice a large black birch with many hollow cavities. It explains why my nesting boxes sometimes go unused: thanks to these hollows, there is an adequate supply of natural housing in this woodlot. I speculate that after dark, the tree will be full of roosting birds.

The oaks stand impressive, their massive trunks and twisted limbs now revealed for me to see. I feel as if I’m in a domed cathedral, where slivers of winter light slip down over me. Gone are the leaves that hid their columned core. Those leaves emerged as tiny pastel points, and then seemingly overnight, all at once, exploded in rich shades of green. The spring teemed with prosperity and activity, it then matured and ripened. But it is completely over now. Not one oak leaf has remained attached to its tree, and the sight of my woods, bleak and naked, speaks of the snow that will soon accumulate. Now, the woodlot holds a different kind of beauty—one of clean, clear starkness. Instead of leaf mass, clustered light forms, and continuity, there is now a crowd of individual tree trunks in an endless variety of vertical poses. It is hard to imagine the way it was, but today, in the full cycle of the year, the silence and dreary pale shades of brown speak of an exhausted land that is devoid of energy and nearly empty of life. The white cover of snow will soon change everything.

And so, I remember the warm summer days when the leaves were fresh and green. Billions of them hung, flickered, glistened, rustled, and sang with the birds while they shaded the earth below and sheltered the living. They fed the birds their bounty of insects, which were gleaned in earnest by the dozens of species that lived in, or traveled through, the woodlot.

Back here, the understory was thick, moist, and succulent with the dew of each morning. The sound of spring started off with a whisper and then grew with each rising sun until it reached a powerful voice. One by one, the migrants arrived, as they have for ages. Spring advanced with the tilt of the earth, and the days grew longer. At the outset, there were warblers—dozens of them flitting about—especially here along Treasure Run. How many different species of warblers passed through this foliated canopy? How many did I miss? Higher up in the oaks, orioles flirted with disaster, dangling upside down, defying gravity with their grace. On this cold morning, such oriole colors—the bright oranges and black—are a contrast that I remember as fondly as I do a warm day.

Later in the spring, when it became more summerlike, more neotropical migrants made their way into the region. Some, I know, stopped here to rest and refuel, and they found my green woodlot a haven—sheltered and rich with food. They arrived at dawn, or even earlier, exhausted from their flights; some had traveled thousands of miles, but most were rested by sunrise and ready to feed through the daylight. They were gone at day’s end, traveling at night with the stars and moon to guide them.

I saw a few of them. I remember the blue-gray gnatcatcher up in the white oak beside the garden. It was a wonderfully warm day in late May. The great crested flycatchers did not go undetected either. In mid-June, they finally showed up, and I watched three work the high canopy back near the rocks. Later, in early July, a male frequented the big oaks behind the hickory with the bluebird box tacked to it. Those days were rich and full with birdsong when the chorus was loud and deafening, life was teeming with full glory, and the birds sang incessantly before the last star of the morning faded and until well after the first star appeared with nightfall.

I remember the thrill of seeing the first rose-breasted grosbeak and how it stopped me in my tracks as I exited my front door. The sight of that bird quietly feeding was an experience that was wholly my own and one to be remembered. In the ensuing days, I waited patiently for the first male to sing. He chose a perch somewhere high and lofty over in my side woods. His music filled the air to the point of saturation for two weeks straight. I listened carefully to that male’s song, trying to recognize the patterns, understand his species, and know what he was proclaiming.

How quickly the days of June slipped into the solstice. I cherished the summer birds including the hummingbirds that were all about me as I worked in the garden. I learned not to wear red while reading on the deck, lest I have them hovering too close and buzzing around my face. I remember the robin running the lawn out back and how much fun it was discovering where it nested—merely feet from last year’s nest in the front yard spruce. I miss the catbirds that nested out front and those by the garden in the evergreen. Funny how the spring turned into summer and the summer was supplanted by the fall. Now, in this winter woodland, I can only think back.

I realize that those long days are now enjoyed somewhere south of the equator, and we are about to sink into the darkness. And so, I muse: Do these long nights give the barred owl more time to hunt? Is that old owl enjoying these shorter days? Perhaps, with so much of his prey soon under the cover of snow, he will need more time?

It must be a difficult time for these owls. Yet, somehow, they manage to survive and live long lives indeed. The oldest owl ever, based on what we know, lived for twenty-five years. The average wild owl lives for about ten years. Needless to say, this barred owl does hold the wisdom attributed to his kind. It is a label given to these birds because of their appearance and justified by their survivability.

My owl has seen this woodlot through the year, just as I have. His long experience has made him more elusive to his enemies and more successful with his prey. In his bank of knowledge is the ascendance of the spring sun, the filling of the vernal pools, and the unfolding of the leaves. He knows well the return of the creatures with each of these events and the release of hunger it brings. He has the knowledge of the oppressive July heat, the cooling quiet of September, and the waning of the October light. His black eyes are the portals of consciousness for life on Berry Lane.

I CROSS TREASURE RUN AT ITS narrowest point by stepping on a few flat rocks. When I look up from the ground and out into the meadow before me, my heart sinks in disappointment. At the far end of the meadow, I see three bright orange banners waving gently from the ends of wooden stakes and, beside them, a giant yellow backhoe tractor. These can mean only one thing—development in the meadow. Disheartened, I quickly cut across the meadow to the well-worn trail where I once hid the coins for Heather and return over Treasure Run by crossing on the two-by-four wooden bridge. I’m just about home now. I see Dave filling our bird feeder. He will know more about what is happening around town.

Dave tells me that they are going to add a few more units to the condo complex and that the construction will not consume the entire meadow. He says that only two units are going up, but we both despair nonetheless. We are concerned that there will be no open space left in the near future. In an effort not to be too discouraging, he informs me that they won’t be extending Westerly Drive beyond the cul-de-sac and over Treasure Run. I feel better, although still concerned, and choose to focus on the good news: we keep half the meadow and Treasure Run flows free.

It could be worse, I reason. But where does it stop? How much do we have to lose? Do we really want shopping centers, condos, and traffic everywhere? It isn’t just wildlife habitat that is being destroyed but also our quality of life. I’m not against development; I’m for responsible planning. We need to protect remote wildlands and also maintain open spaces near our dwellings, like Heather’s Meadow. Humans are not just industrious but also spiritual, and like the birds, we too need places where our spirits can soar.

Tonight is New Year’s Eve. Tomorrow starts a new beginning and, with it, the covenant of four new seasons. Heather will head off to college later in the new year, and I’ll be left with an empty nest. I hope she will take more than her basic material possessions with her. I hope she can call upon memories of exploring and discovering nature that we made together. I think she now has the foundation and value set to make time to escape the campus and retreat to a place where she can be alone in nature. When college life gets a bit crazy, she can seek the peace we find in natural places.

Maybe she will remember the days we spent along Treasure Run looking for the coins I hid there. Perhaps she will reflect on the inspiration she found alone in the meadow or the countless times we lay on our backs beneath the open slatted roof of her secret fort, watching big white clouds bank high and move like snails across the summer sky. She might even call me one day to ask if the bluebirds have returned to the nesting box or to see if I’ve taken a walk down the cul-de-sac to hear the phoebe sing.

I know I’ll miss her, but I will feel great satisfaction in knowing that she’s gaining her independence. I will anticipate her successes and wait for good news about a test grade or making a new friend or that one special course that ignites a whole new area of interest. It might be a course on nature. Who knows? Maybe our time watching birds will influence her to study ornithology. Whatever she chooses to pursue, I must encourage and support her toward that goal, just as my father supported my interest in birds. I only hope that her eyes remain open, that she continues to observe, listen, and find enjoyment in watching birds as she goes about her day.

I won’t overly concern myself about her, though. I know Heather is capable, but she might worry about me. She might worry that every year, I’ll be off in the woods alone at midnight in subzero weather, hooting like an owl.