Up Moses Creek: Bones of Contention
When a robin takes a bath, it’s an explosion of water and feathers. Fred Coyle photo.
Watching birds is a year-round pleasure for Becky and me — daily to see their beauty and vitality, their aerial acrobatics, their antics and doings that reveal their native smarts. And to make sure there are birds to watch we bait the yard.
We have bird feeders outside the windows, plus several birdbaths and birdhouses here and there. The food, water and shelter are good for the birds, too, but they also cause squabbles and flutter-fights. “My turn to bathe,” says the chickadee. “No, it’s mine!” the titmouse replies as he lands on the birdbath and flares his crest, scaring the smaller one off. And when the red-bellied woodpecker swoops in with its powerful beak to feast on sunflower seeds, the yard birds scatter in a puff of feathers. Pecking orders, after all, are established by pecks.
Summer will bring no let-up in the fights. Becky will fill her hummingbird feeders with enough sugar water to quench the thirst of all the hummingbirds up Moses Creek. But a possessive male, flashing his ruby throat, will think he owns every drop. One time, a matriarchal female claimed one of the feeders and became so focused on keeping the other hummers off that she paid me no mind when, twice, I reached up and stroked her back.
Because of the backyard contention, feeding birds is not for everyone. My mother tried putting up a feeder, but her sense of decorum and fair play were so offended by a flock of piggish goldfinches that she took it back down.
I’ve heard that once upon a time there were myths about gods who had no such human scruples, gods who, for their sport, set humans on each other with treats. And if they saw that one group was about to establish a peaceable kingdom on earth, where the lions lie down with the lambs, those devilish gods would toss down golden apples, or — in today’s telling of the tale — send up some bubbles of oil, then recline on mountaintops to watch: “Look at the free-for-all!” Backyard birders might be a little bit like that.
One thing I know firsthand about people with binoculars for eyes: at times they have to steel themselves to what they see. Once Becky and I focused in on two bluebirds checking out a nest house. Of course, that was the very house the chickadee pair just had to have. A little war of wings was waged, and the chickadees won it. They built their nest, laid their eggs, brought food to their peeping young. Then one day when both parents were busy searching for food, we noticed a bluebird at the opening, looking — to steal a line from Wordsworth — “like a guilty thing surprised.” The family birdhouse was unusually quiet after that, appeared deserted. Later in the summer I opened the box and found a chick skeleton in the abandoned nest with a hole in its skull. Another lay in the weeds below.
Related Items
Get in on the Great Backyard Bird Count Walk
WCU’s Gibbs earns grant for sicklefin redhorse research
‘The Greatest Wildlife Photographs’ on display at NC Arboretum
Word from the Smokies: Park embarks on cutting-edge hellbender study
The Berry Battle this January was more fun to watch. Years ago, we planted hollies to provide cold-weather food for the birds, and now the limbs hang low with winter fruit. Last November a male robin moved in on the bounty. We think he might be the same bird we’ve watched for several winters. We call him Solitary Robin. The hollies held oodles of red berries, and he lorded it over them all. Even if a bird that doesn’t eat berries, like a wren or junco, landed just to rest, here came Solitary Robin with indignant squawks. Then he’d flick his tail and pluck a berry.
But on the morning of Jan. 12 an irruption of a flock of robins marked the start of B-Day. Solitary Robin lunged this way and that at the invaders, never letting them relax. If they got a berry, he made sure it came with indigestion. He’d scare off one claim-jumper, only to find three more in its place. He chased away a female robin. In April, when the sap of spring rises in the stalk, he’ll chase her again — but this time to catch her, not drive her away.
By day’s end Solitary Robin was exhausted. He’d had no time to eat. He’d given the bushes such a shaking that half his treasure now lay on the ground. It was galling to think that his loss was the ground-foraging Hermit Thrush’s gain! If he could hold out until the other robins left to roost, he’d get some shuteye. Literally, one eye shut. The other eye would stay open. There are no security cameras in animal land.
When the flock returned the next day in overwhelming force, Solitary Robin gave up. It was so unfair. The others hadn’t guarded the berries all winter like he had done. I could almost hear him “sobbing, sobbing, Pretty, Pretty Robin” — taking liberty with a line from William Blake. Then, out of the blue, or so I thought, ancient words of wisdom came down to Solitary Robin: “If you can’t beat them, eat them.” We watched him gobble down 10 berries just like that.
(Burt and Becky Kornegay live in Jackson County.)
