You too might find one nesting in your backyard this spring. It’s a native sparrow that ranges over most of North America, often nesting close to people’s homes.

Chipping Sparrows show up where I live in Iowa when the peach trees bloom.

I can’t think of any other native sparrows that find it so agreeable to share living space with me.

Sometimes they tuck a nest into a shrub or small conifer, at about the height of my chest. I learn about it when they fly in and out, carrying food for babies. I don’t go poking around to get a look at the nest, as that could help a predator to find and destroy it. It is enough to know it is there, and to enjoy the whispered tsee-tsee-tsee of the nestlings as their parents approach the nest with a meal.

Often in the morning a chippy is poking through my wildflower garden, finding stray seeds among the plants and mosses.

Chipping Sparrows return to Iowa to breed in April. Soon they start singing, especially in the early morning. The song is a trill, as if plucked on a double string, but super fast. Then silence for a few seconds. And another identical trill.

Recorded by Diane Porter

Each beat is separately audible at normal speed. If only I could think the numbers a little faster, I could almost count the beats. But not quite.

If I record the song and play it back at 1/4 speed, I can hear the individual beats.

Their songs tickle my imagination.

Why does this species so often nest around human habitation? Chipping Sparrows happen to like exactly what many backyards offer — open ground beneath scattered trees.

They forage on the ground for seeds and insects. They do very well in towns, provided the backyard is free from pesticides and insecticides. It also helps if the area has some leaves on the ground, to make living space for the insects that the birds eat.

One morning I watched Chipping Sparrow loiter on the moss-covered roof of a shed. The bird may have been finding insects and other tiny animal life that was hiding in the sheltered spaces of the moss.

Compared to many other native sparrows, the Chipping Sparrow is noticeably small. This dainty little bird is one of the easiest to identify, with its distinctive facial pattern and plain-gray, unstreaked breast.

It is a great favorite of mine. I feel honored that it is willing to be my neighbor, raising its young in an evergreen shrub close by my front door.

Side by side, their size tells us which is which. Alone, it’s much harder.

Here are four ways to tell them apart when you see only one bird. These field marks still work when size fails.

1) The bill

Compare the bill to the head. I mentally turn the bill around and see how far it would reach back across the face.

The Hairy’s bill is more than half the width of the head. The Downy’s is less than half.

Hefty Hairy.
Dainty Downy.

The tuft of bristles at the base of the bill can help, too. If the tuft almost encompasses the bill, the bird is probably a Downy.

Hairy Woodpecker’s long, strong bill helps the bird chisel large insects buried deep in wood. Downy’s more agile bill is great for catching smaller prey among twigs, which is where we often see Downy Woodpeckers perched. A Downy can even land on grasses — something I’ve never seen Hairy do.

2) Tail feathers

Are the outer feathers of the tail a clean white?
Probably a Hairy Woodpecker.
This one field mark is not proof all by itself, because sometimes we can’t see spots on the Downy Woodpecker’s outer tail feathers either. But it’s evidence.

On the other hand, if we do see black spots on the white tail feathers, it’s a slam dunk for Downy Woodpecker. Even a few tiny black specks strongly indicate Downy.

From below, the difference is even more striking. The underside of a Hairy Woodpecker’s tail feathers is clean white. The Downy has a flashy pattern of black and white on the under tail feathers.

3) The red on the head

Among adults of both species, the male has red on the back of the head, like a blooming rose. For males, the shape of the red matters.

Hairy often shows the red patch split into two spots; Downy usually has a single, more compact patch.

Hairy has a pair of roses.
Downy is down to a single rose.

This field mark also is not absolute. It’s another clue, though, if we’re hesitating over which woodpecker we’re looking at.

4) The shoulder spur

Here is one more field mark. It is subtle, but I have found it quite reliable.

Hairy Woodpecker has a somewhat variable black line, or spur, that extends from the side of the neck, well into the white of the upper breast. Birders often call it a “shoulder spur,” because it is just above where the wing attaches to the body.

The Downy Woodpecker’s white throat and upper breast do not have the black spur.

Sometimes the presence or absence of the shoulder spur is the detail that clinches the identification for me when the other field marks fail.

On Hairy, black pushes into the white.
On Downy, the white stays clean.

Use everything!

Usually, we know at a glance whether a woodpecker is a Hairy or a Downy. In borderline cases, such as when a bird is isolated (making size comparison difficult), and it has a bill intermediate in length, then it’s good to remember these other field marks.

Below is a photo of a woodpecker that at first glance is somewhat puzzling. There’s nothing to judge how big he is. To me, the bill looks between the proportions of a Hairy Woodpecker and a Downy Woodpecker.

We can’t see the back of his head to determine whether the red patch is single (Downy) or double (Hairy).

However, there are black spots along the edge of the outer tail feathers. That’s a strong point for Downy Woodpecker.

And there is no black spur at the shoulder. Another point for Downy Woodpecker.

We have our identification.

Ah, such satisfaction!

However, in my personal reckoning, spring begins the moment I first hear an American Robin.

Hear him. Not just see him, because a few robins have been around all winter. They’ve been largely out of sight, though. In Iowa, robins often hang out in cold woodlands, where they feed primarily on juniper berries and other wild fruits.

Robins do not sing in the Iowa winter. Nor do they patrol lawns. Earthworms are out of reach of their bills, under a layer of frozen soil.

Those who remain for the winter assemble in flocks. Silent as monks, except for occasional tut-tut notes. I don’t often see them, except during a thaw, when a group comes to drink at the edge of the pond.

But then one day they start to feel spring. On a late afternoon heavy with the promise of warm rain, a robin perches in the black cherry tree, clears his throat, and whistles tentatively.

Cheer? Cheerily?

He pauses.

I love those first notes, like the violins’ bowing as the orchestra tunes up. Fresh on the ear. They stir my anticipation.

The robin ruffles his feathers. Then he sings.
Cheerily. Cheer up. Cheerio, cheerily? Cheer up! Cheer up!

Recorded by Diane Porter

He is a cantor, singing the canticle that celebrates the spring. It is a chant heard on every farm, in every neighborhood in North America, until darkness falls.

And then it is spring

When the ground thaws and the soil temperature rises to around 40 degrees Fahrenheit (40°F), earthworms rise toward the surface. Robins are standing by to grab and drag them out of the ground. The first meat of the year, the worms must taste marvelous.

The scientific name of the American Robin is Turdus migratorius, which means migrating thrush. The robins migrate, but they stay mostly within North America.

And every year, they sing the canticle of spring.

Over in my neighbor’s woods, barely audible from here, a Great Horned Owl stammers out five hoots. Who’s awake? Me, too.

Great Horned Owl call, Daniel Parker (XC144359), CC BY-NC-SA 3.0, Xeno-canto.

It is a sound heard all over North America, in rural locales and even in tree-rich towns. We hear it in movies whenever the scene shifts to an outdoor nighttime space. We all grew up grokking those hoots.

Great Horned Owls start courting far earlier than most birds. In Iowa, by early March the eggs are about to hatch. There may even be downy babies in the nest already.

The female is staying on the nest, keeping her offspring warm. The male hunts and brings prey. It’s an intense time. The owls may call to reassure each other. Also, their hoots notify any hawk considering a nest that this territory is occupied and will be defended.

The male calls to his mate as he approaches her. He is a solemn foghorn in the night. From the nest, she responds, her voice a little higher than his. They duet.

Great Horned Owl calls, Daniel Parker (XC144359), CC BY-NC-SA 3.0, Xeno-canto.

Great Horned Owls weigh about the same as a smallish house cat. The female is bigger than the male and weighs 1/3 more. Although the male is smaller overall, his syrinx (a bird’s vocal organ) is larger than the female’s. That is why his hoots carry at a lower pitch.

One April, I came upon a Great Horned Owl nest in the local county park. A tree had broken off mid trunk, leaving a hollow that was open to the sky. The parents were not in view. All alone, a baby owl was looking out at the woods. The “ear” tufts were the merest fuzzy bumps.

The Great Horned Owl eggs in a nest hatch a few days apart, so the young are not all the same size. There might have been a smaller, younger chick in that nest who I couldn’t see.

After watching for a minute, I departed back the way I’d come, so as not to cause the nest any stress. As I walked, I kept looking over my shoulder at the little owl. It was still watching me in silence until I couldn’t see it through the trees any more.

I seldom see Great Horned Owls, but hearing these morning hoots, I feel connected to an unseen nest somewhere in my neighborhood.

The wild is still here.

So I walked under the leafless trees in the bright, cold morning, down a trail into the canyon cut long ago by Crow Creek. The stream was full of jumbled tree branches, fallen there under the weight of winter ice storms.

No cardinals sang. No crickets. No frogs. Spring was still a hypothetical future. All was quiet save for the sound of water.

At a bend in the creek, where the woods opened to the sky, I saw a hawk circling high against pure blue.

A second hawk arced into the scene, chasing the first, at an even distance. Suddenly it pumped higher into the sky. It dived down, as if intent on colliding midair with the other, only to break into the circling pattern again.

The hawks were dancing.

They did not seem to notice me staring up at them.

I must have stopped breathing when one dropped suddenly into a tall tree almost directly over my head.

In an instant it saw me and flew, up again into the blue.

The two glided off, beyond the canyon’s cliff and out of sight.

I had witnessed the ecstasy of angels.

To hear the call of a Red-shouldeed Hawk, visit The Cornell Lab of Ornithology here, and click on the green “Listen” button.

Northern Cardinals get a complete new set of feathers during late summer to early fall, after breeding season is finished. It will get them through the winter.

New feathers shed water. They are smooth. They cut through air with minimal friction. Other feathers, out of sight next to the skin, are also new, springy and soft. These are the down feathers, which keep the bird warm.

The cardinals of North America don’t migrate, so they don’t wear out their feathers very fast. They have it easier than migratory birds, who may fly thousands of miles in their yearly round trip. The wings and tail feathers of migrants may require replacement twice a year.

But cardinals molt only once. Not only do their feathers hold up through the winter, but the birds also still look good the next spring. That’s when appearance is important, both for defending territory and for impressing a potential mate.

However, after the breeding season, a cardinal’s’ wing and tail feathers can be a wreck. Even the inner layer of down feathers is degraded. It has lost its springiness and is getting matted and clumpy.

New feathers are already forming, and they nudge the old ones out. Something like the way human permanent teeth replace baby teeth.

A feather is alive as it forms, with a blood vessel supplying nutrients. Each new feather is encased in a whitish sheath, like shrink-wrap. It’s made of keratin, the same tough protein as in fingernails. Sometimes the feather sheaths are conspicuous, especially on the face and head.

As the feather grows to full size, the blood supply stops. Like hair and fingernails, the feather still matters, but it is no longer alive. The sheath dries out and cracks. Often the tip of a red feather flares out at the end. The bird nibbles and scratches at the sheaths, shattering them and releasing the feathers.

Molting

The process of systematically replacing feathers is called molting. For Northern Cardinals, first the body feathers loosen and start to fall out. Drab splotches in the plumage are the gray down feathers showing through. Then the feathers of tail and wings are replaced, symmetrically, pair by pair.

Molting takes a lot of energy. Most birds don’t do it during the nesting season; they are already pressed to provide food for baby birds. And during the winter, cardinals need an intact set of feathers to survive the cold. But late summer is easy time for cardinals. Wild food is abundant. Babies are on their own. Migration is a nonissue. Now cardinals can molt.

Beauty restored.

She flies low over the field, and slowly. Now and then she gives a languid flap and then glides on poised wings. Her style reminds me of a skater, pushing off with one foot and coasting.

Low altitude gives the hunter the advantage. A rodent in the grass has scant time to register the hawk silhouette in the sky. A momentary shadow comes from nowhere, and then talons.

I see the harrier flutter down, but instantly she rises again, like a leaf lifted by wind. Did she miss?

She drops again and disappears into tall grass. This time, she got the mouse. I can just make out her back as she hunches over her kill. Three minutes later, she is flying again.

Her tacking brings her gradually closer to me. Her head tilts down, eyes fixed on the ground. I feel my breath get quicker.

You can recognize a Northern Harrier by the low, buoyant flight style. Sometimes the wings slant upward in a shallow vee, and the bird rocks side to side in the air.

To keep them skating free

Northern Harriers generally avoid urban areas, but they forage along roadsides and over grassy pastures, anywhere that mice can make a living.

Northern Harrier is listed as endangered in several states, including Iowa, and as threatened in some other eastern states. It is tied closely to grasslands and wetlands—habitats that keep shrinking or breaking apart. Protecting and restoring such open grassy spaces is one of the simplest ways to keep this low-flying hunter on the landscape.

Where the Northern Harrier lives

Northern Harriers live across most of North America, shifting north and south with the seasons.

The Cornell Lab’s range map shows the breeding range in orange and the winter range in blue. Purple means year-round. Iowa sits in that year-round zone, but I most often notice harriers on leaf-bare winter days.

Conservation officers of the Iowa Department of Natural Resources had just unlatched the doors to the swans’ individual cages. Over 100 exhilarated well-wishers stood back to give the birds some space.

The first swan stepped out of its cage and looked around as if not sure what the situation was. The next bird had its wings spread by the time it cleared the door. It started running, head forward, beating its wings in a power dash to the water. The other birds rushed behind it. All skidded and splashed into the lake.

In a moment, they were utterly composed. As a body they glided away and left the watchers behind.

They were home.

Reintroducing the trumpeter

Their release was part of a long effort bringing the Trumpeter Swan back to Iowa. This is a big, majestic creature—the heaviest native bird in North America—an emblem of wildness and freedom.

What happened to the trumpeters

Trumpeter Swans were once abundant throughout the Upper Midwest, New England, and the Pacific Northwest. Prior to 1800, explorers and fur traders described them nesting on prairie lakes and slow-moving rivers. In Iowa, millions of acres of shallow wetlands made the landscape prime trumpeter habitat year-round.

By 1883 the great birds were gone. They died from unregulated hunting. The birds ingested lead shot while feeding, which poisoned them. The draining of wetlands for agriculture destroyed their habitat.

Trumpeter Swans no longer bred or lived in Iowa. A few wandered through from time to time, but they did not stay.

Across nearly all of North America, the species seemed headed for extinction. By 1933, only about 70 Trumpeter Swans were known to survive in the United States, confined to the Yellowstone National Park ecosystem.

Trumpeters in Alaska

Nature gave us a break. In 1952, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service discovered a previously unknown population in remote Alaska. This refugial stronghold saved the species and made reintroductions possible across parts of its former range.

Iowa began its own reintroduction effort in the 1990s. Between 1995 and 2021, about 1,200 swans were released statewide. Lake Sugema was one of several ideal sites for nesting: a large, shallow lake with standing dead trees and abundant woody debris.

Success, so far

Today at least 135 pairs of Trumpeter Swans nest in Iowa, and the number continues to grow naturally. That doesn’t mean they’re as common as chickadees, but they are no longer rare.

Trumpeters now appear on lakes and rivers throughout the state, sometimes even on farm ponds. From the highway, motorists may glimpse immense white birds, improbably serene.

Keeping them here

Reintroduction alone is not enough. Trumpeter Swans survive only if the conditions that destroyed them are not allowed to return. Iowa has changed those conditions—and now manages them, so that the birds don’t get wiped out all over again:

• Throughout the US, Trumpeter Swans are protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. They may not be hunted, harassed, or captured.

• Lead shot has been banned for waterfowl hunting, eliminating a major source of poisoning. The ban is nationwide.

• The Iowa DNR manages public wetlands and works with private landowners to preserve large, shallow wetlands, especially important in winter. Refuges such as Union Slough National Wildlife Refuge and managed wetlands like Cone Marsh provide critical habitat.

• Public understanding has grown. Trumpeter Swans are native and protected, and they rarely damage crops. They feed almost entirely on native aquatic plants, pulling roots and tubers from shallow water. They do not forage in corn or soybean fields.

Enjoying Trumpeter Swans

Because of their great size, swans are visible from a long way off. Occasionally I’ve seen them flying high over my land in Jefferson County, even in the depth of winter. Usually it’s their calls that attract my attention. Their voices are brassy, like a band of trumpets, French horns, bugles, and maybe a kazoo. (Click here for a great recording made by Will Hershberger.) There’s an exuberance to the sound. I feel it in my core.

Twenty years after the introduction, I watched great white birds rise from the edge of half-frozen Lake Sugema. They flew in a great circle halfway around me, white against a lucid dream of blue.

It thrilled me to see and hear them up there, bugling in the icy air.

At loud as I could, I honked back at them, using my voice.

Birds do have ways to get by with amazingly little water. Still, if they can find open water in winter, they will come for it eagerly. A cautious small bird may spend only a few seconds at the birdbath, but that can be a delightful moment for the watcher at the window.

Offering a drink to wild birds is a great way to enjoy the outdoor winter from the warmth of indoors. Here are some suggestions for a successful birdbath.

Keeping water wet

The best winter birdbath has a heater built into the bowl, out of sight, with a thermostat that turns on the heat when the water is below freezing and turns it off once the water is melted. It requires an outside electrical outlet and an outdoor-rated cord. This kind of birdbath can be pricey, but if it’s in the budget, it offers a lot of joy to bird and human.

You could also simply put out a pan of warm water, but in super cold weather it will freeze fast, just like an ordinary, unheated birdbath.

Another solution is a de-icer, which is a separate electric heating element you can submerge in an ordinary birdbath to prevent ice from forming. I’ve found it challenging to secure them so that they don’t get knocked out of the bath, leaving the water to freeze. However, with a little ingenuity, it’s a way to upgrade an ordinary birdbath, which would otherwise be useless in a frozen winter.

How to do birdbaths right

Shallow, rough, quiet, and clean

• Shallow ~ Keep the water level shallow, so that a bird can stand in the water if they want to, without getting their body wet. One inch is about perfect. If the bath is too deep, a couple of flat rocks in the bottom are in order.

• Rough ~ Smooth surfaces get slippery. A rough-textured birdbath gives good grip, letting the birds focus on drinking rather than maintaining balance.

• Quiet ~ Bubblers and fountains are problematical in extreme cold and are not recommended in winter. Splashing water sometimes inspires a bird to take a bath. That bath would be much better postponed until the weather warms up.

• Clean ~ Cleanliness is non-negotiable, for the health of the birds. I carry a gallon jug of water out every morning, give the bath a quick scrub with a brush I keep nearby, and replace the water. Locate the bath in reach of a hose, and it will be easy to keep clean in summer, too.

Where to place your birdbath

• South or southeast exposure ~ It’s ideal for catching the sun in the morning sun, when birds are eager for a drink.

• Out of the wind ~ Wind pulls heat out of birds’ bodies. You’ll get more visitors in a protected location.

• With an escape route ~ Evergreen shrubs, a dense deciduous thicket, or a brush pile about 6-10 feet away gives birds a place to flee if a predator shows up. It’s far enough away to make it hard for cats and other predators to ambush the birds.

• Down fairly low ~ Ground level baths, and up to about 18 inches tall, invite the many birds who prefer to drink close to the ground. Also, the wind is softer down low. Decks and rails are OK so long as there are trees or shrubs nearby for escape.

• Away from feeders ~ Water stays cleaner if seeds and worse things are not dropping into it.

• And the cord ~ Of course, the heated bath has to be where electricity is within reach.

Safety from cats

Domestic cats kill many wild birds. Birds are vulnerable when they leave protected spaces to get water.

So don’t put your birdbath near a spot where cats can hide. The birds should have clear sight lines from the bath. Be wary of low wall, steps, and woodpiles. Don’t put your bath near a door where a cat can dash out and grab a bird.

You matter too

Put yourself in the picture. Place the birdbath where you can see it from indoors, from your desk, dining room, or kitchen sink.

The dream birdbath

• A rough-textured, shallow, low, heated bowl

• Separated from feeders

• About 8 feet from dense evergreens or a thicket

• South-facing, wind-sheltered spot

• Where predators can be spotted easily

• Where you can see it from inside your house

Happy winter season to all who love birds.

I’d love to hear what experience has taught you about birdbaths!

Leave a comment

It’s a droll and cheering sight on a chill fall morning. A few blue-headed Wild Turkey hens stroll leisurely on the grass, poking at fallen leaves and pecking at seedheads of goldenrod and asters.

Female Wild Turkeys show up a lot in late fall. They’re tamer than the toms. In Iowa, the hunting of male turkeys is legal and licensed. Females, in Iowa as in many other states, cannot legally be shot. Around here, the hens are pretty chill.

A hen sometimes strolls along my driveway as confidently as a neighbor coming over to say hello. Males live by different rules, which they have learned by adulthood. Toms seldom wander into sight of people.

Hens

In the winter woods, snow evidence shows flocks of turkeys have been parading down the trails.

Turkey footprints are big — 4 inches or longer, with the middle toe longest by far. In Iowa, the only other bird making tracks this big is the Great Blue Heron. But their track shows four toes, all about the same length. Not the same shape at all.

These turkey tracks are from hens and possibly some young males. Toms, the adult males, don’t just go for a walk with females. And they don’t form big male flocks, either. I’m seeing a band of hens here.

Toms

Toms are solitary and reclusive. They hide out in brushy creek bottoms, wooded ravines, and cedar thickets.

Although I’ve seen hen turkeys hundreds of times in 20-plus years living in rural Iowa, I’ve never come across a tom strutting and displaying his tail. However, in late March, before the spring snow is gone, I hear them faintly through the woods, gobbling in the distance.

Turkey recording by Diane Porter

The toms start gobbling well before sunrise. They call down from their roost in a big tree. From that elevated position, the sound easily carries a mile or more. Around sunrise, they come down from the trees and strut on the ground, fanning their tails and being gorgeous. I plan to try to witness such a display early next spring. Females watch the displaying males and decide which male(s) to mate with.

Jakes

Although adult turkeys are stealthy, in late winter young male turkeys (called jakes) often wander by two or threes through open fields. They have not yet learned to stay out of sight. Although many hunters prefer to take a big adult male, jakes are shot too. Hunting is the main reason that by spring, there are two to three female Wild Turkeys for every male.

Poults

In the spring, the mother turkey watches over her young for a few weeks as they amble through the grass as a family. She warms them at night and gives calls that signal them to hide if a dog or raccoon comes near. She teaches them what to eat and shows them where to find it.

However, from the moment they hatch, the babies must peck up their own food. Because they need a lot of protein, they eat mostly insects and spiders they find in the grass. Gradually they transition to eating more seeds, berries, acorns, and grasses.

Bringing turkeys back

Wild Turkeys were abundant throughout North America prior to European settlement. However, by early 20th Century they had been almost hunted out of existence. The last verified Iowa sighting was in 1910, in Lucas County.

Re-introduction programs in Iowa, using pen-raised birds, were a flop, because the turkeys lacked survival skills or instincts. In 1965, biologists tried again with wild-captured turkeys, and that worked. By the end of the 20th Century, Wild Turkeys roamed the entire state again.

And for that I give thanks.

The leaves were half gone, and it was chilly already. Latte ran ahead, but Michael matched my pace, which is slow at the moment because of the bad ankle. As we came to the woods, Michael pointed. “Look! Isn’t that an owl?”

A Barred Owl. And it was close, perched in an almost bare honey locust. Among thorns and stiff branches, it was all softness. It looked straight at us with big, dark eyes that showed only witness. No fear. Unruffled attention.

I was overcome by a sense of calm. After our walk, when we got home, the feeling lingered. I thought of the owls in the night, out there in the woods, living their quiet life.

But they are not always quiet. Sometimes I wake to hear Barred Owls courting in trees close by our house. Their voices tremble with passion, throb, fade and rise.

Recordist: Diane Porter

I can only guess what they express to each other, what they are feeling.

Their story flows alongside our own. They and we are two parallel streams, separated by the interfluve of our difference — day and night, civilized and wild — yet carried by the same coursing life.

The next morning as the sun was rising, I saw a Barred Owl again, perhaps the same one. It lifted silent from a tree, winged deep into a complication of branches, and was gone.

With the leaves thinning, he was easy to spot. I watched him watch me watching him.

Sometimes nature reveals her glory only briefly … for a minute before the sun vanishes into clouds … or in a spot of molten gold on the underside of the flicker’s tail, glimpsed from a lucky viewpoint.

Just as the sun is there even when it’s out of sight, the flicker's gold is always present. But when the bird is not moving, the color is mostly hidden.

From a top or back view, the flicker does not grab attention. The back is barred, inconspicuous against the trunk of a tree in shady woods.

Both adults take care of baby flickers. Landing at the nest hollow in a tree, and distracted by babies needing care, a parent has a vulnerable moment. Cooper’s Hawks, the flickers’ number one predator, watch for an opportunity such as this. Cooper’s Hawks eat mostly birds. They spend their days hunting in the woods for prey.

When she’s about to dive into her nest to check on her babies, a mother flicker might not notice the ambushing Cooper’s Hawk. That’s when the cryptic pattern of her back could give her a little extra safety and help her escape detection.

After feeding or brooding the babies, the flicker flies out of the nest. Then her underwings and the underside of her tail feathers are strikingly yellow. But now the agile flicker is likely facing her stalker, and she has a better chance of escape.

Although their bright colors can be hazardous to flickers, they are valuable for communication, as signals of combat, romance, or camaraderie. A flicker in motion, with its golden wing linings revealed, is a thing of glory.

In eastern North America, male and female Northern Flickers look almost alike. Both have a red crescent on the back of the neck and golden wing linings and undertail coverts.

Telling him from her

The difference between the sexes is the black patch on the face, extending down and back from the base of the bill. Only the male has that patch, or “mustache” (a handlebar mustache, perhaps).

The female’s cheek is plain, with no mustache. Same polkadot shirtfront. Same black velvet cravat below the throat. Same dagger bill and gray crown.

In western North America, Northern Flickers are technically the same species, but they look rather different. Western flickers have red under the wings and tail. And the male’s mustache is red instead of black.

The eastern and western versions were once considered separate species: Red-shafted Flicker in the west; Yellow-shafted Flicker in the east. The American Ornithologists’ Union decided in 1973 that they were actually all one species, because they successfully interbreed where they come in contact, including in South Dakota, Nebraska, and Texas. The two species were lumped (as ornithologists express it) into one species — Northern Flicker.

In both the east and the west, Northern Flickers are major architects of the woodland community. They excavate a new nest hole every year. In following years, bluebirds and other forest birds use the abandoned cavities.

Although most of our Iowa flickers go south for the winter, some do stick around. Now that they’re migrating through my area, I’m seeing more of them. This morning a dozen flickers were flying about, shrieking and whooping it up like kids at a family reunion. The trees in the fence line seemed full of them. Maybe they’re excited about their journey south, connecting with old friends and rivals.

A few will stay here this winter, and that makes me happy.

I’m filling the feeders only half way, or less. Sometimes they are still just as full the next morning.

Where is everybody?

Grasses and flowers are burgeoning with ripe seeds. Insects have eaten well all summer and multiplied. Now they’re ready to be plucked from fields and woods. Fresh, organically-grown, still-alive bird food is everywhere.

The birds simply don’t need our feeders right now.

Then why feed now?

For information! Already, as the days cool and shorten, wild birds are making decisions about which back yards they will visit this winter. They do check in from time to time. They’re scouting, noticing what we have on offer. They will remember.

This is the time to keep the feeders well stocked and the birdbath full of fresh, clean water. It’s advertising. An invitation to come back when serious winter arrives.

Frigid temperatures make birds need a lot more food, right when insects stop flying and wiggling. Snow covers seeds. Ice seals away tree buds and remaining wild fruits. Suddenly the birds feel ravenous, and they may not have the luxury of time to explore new resources. They have to go where they know they will find food.

It’s good to have our yards included in their itinerary. When the first storm hits, the birds will show up. Hungry. Chirpy and chattery. Red and blue and black-and-white and yellow. Fun to look at on a snowy day.

What foods to offer

The most popular bird food is black oil sunflower seeds. These have lots of calorie-rich oil in them. The shells are thin and easy to crack. The seeds are very nutritious. They’re tops for chickadees, cardinals, finches, nuthatches, titmice, and woodpeckers.

I find that birds like the sunflower hearts even more, because they are 100% reward. The shells have been removed, saving time and energy for the birds. And sunflower hearts are cleaner in the back yard, because there’s no pile of black shells under the feeder.

American Goldfinches flock to the round mesh feeder I use for sunflower hearts. Quite a few of the seeds do fall on the ground, but they don’t stay there long. Dark-eyed Juncos, who prefer to feed on the ground, are quick to snap up every sunflower heart that the goldfinches drop.

I also offer suet (beef fat), in a special feeder that a bird can reach into only from below. Woodpeckers, chickadees, nuthatches, and titmice visit it all the time. They have no trouble hanging by their feet from the underside.

Starlings would outcompete everybody else if they were able to hold on upside down. But they can’t.

What if we have to go away?

Don’t worry about the birds if you have to be gone from your home for a while in winter. The birds won’t depend solely on your feeder, and they won’t starve just because your feeders go empty.

They’ll remember you. And they’ll be back.

I can count on seeing Ruby-crowned Kinglets on my birthday, in mid September. They pass through my Iowa woods as they head south for the winter.

They are inconspicuous birds, especially in fall. They aren’t singing — it’s not time for courtship. They seem focused mainly on food, snapping up insects or feeding on berries such as poison ivy. Males and females look alike, with the same drab greenish colors and broken white eye-ring.

When another kinglet, or a chickadee, or a warbler seems interested in the same patch of food, they sometimes takes offense. And if it’s a male, he suddenly gets very conspicuous indeed.

It’s as if his crown bursts into flames. Crimson feathers rise quivering from the top of his head. He may chase the other bird, who sees a red badge of war and is likely to leave immediately.

Where were those red feathers before?

His green feathers, layered over the red ones, concealed them.

You know how the skin on your arms or the back of your neck can suddenly go all goosebumps, and your hairs stand on end? When something scares or infuriates you, this reaction is not under voluntary control. It’s a reflex. In a moment of excitement, small muscles contract at the base of each hair. It’s part of the fight-or-flight response.

Similarly, in birds, each feather follicle also has tiny muscles. When they contract, the feather shaft lifts, making the feather rise and become visible. This happens to male Ruby-crowned Kinglets when they are agitated and their feelings are surging. (It happens to females also, but as they lack red feathers, the effect is not noticeable.)

It seems unlikely that the male even knows he has a ruby crown blazing on his head. He’s probably seen other males do it, though, and he knows instinctively that the other guy is feeling aggressive.

Perhaps he experiences a tingle on his scalp. It must be part of the thrill of being a Ruby-crowned Kinglet on a fine fall morning.

And watching him, my own scalp tingles, just a bit.

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In late August the red feathers of a young male’s crest are coming in. When winter gets here, the crest will be completely red, as will the bill. But now, in transition, the bill looks blotchy. In fact he’s a blotchy bird all over.

Northern Cardinals replace their feathers with new ones every fall. In the fresh plumage of winter, the males are quite stunningly red, including the bill. Once a male gets his cardinal suit, he wears the color year around for the rest of his life. He never has a dull moment.

When Northern Cardinals first leave the nest, they are beige, with only a tinge of reddish in their wings and tail. Their beaks are gray, not red. Females and males look alike, so we can’t tell the sex of a fledgeling. However, a cardinal in August or September with a gray bill is for sure a youngster, hatched that year.

When the youngsters are a couple of months old, they start to replace their body feathers. That’s when they reveal their sex, as only the males get a bright red belly and back.

Females stay brownish, but they are molting in the same way. Soft, loose baby feathers give way to stronger adult feathers. The bill transitions from gray, through splotchy, to red, just like males.

Both sexes of adult cardinals find bright red bills appealing, and the ones with the brightest red bills are most sought after as mates.

Here’s looking you, Babe!

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Its feathers were soft and fluffy, mostly gray, because it was a baby. It must have fledged from its nest somewhere near my house, and fairly recently. Already it could fly well, but it was curiously incautious. It came close, watching me. It had probably never seen a human being before.

One of its parents was looking down at us from a greater height. It had a deep blue forehead and back.

Its white eye-ring showed up boldly against the dark blue head. The feathers looked sleek, and harder. Adult feathers need to be tough.

For a while, babies can get by with downy plumage. That’s OK for a baby, but it would not hold up to the rigors of migration. By fall they will replace their juvenile feathers with new, stronger ones. And their heads and backs will turn the beautiful blue of their parents’.

This could be the nest that my visitor hatched from. It’s small and delicate, like the nest of a hummingbird. Covered with flakes of lichen, it blends with the tree branches.

What they eat

Blue-gray Gnatcatchers are primarily insectivorous. They eat mostly small invertebrates. They find these things delicious: flies, leafhoppers, aphids, moths, caterpillars, beetles, treehoppers, spiders and spider eggs, small wasps and ants, insect eggs, and the occasional small crustacean.

How it sings

Its whispery-skritchy song is elusive, often brief, and usually at a distance. I have never been able to record it, but if you want to hear one, go to the Cornell Lab’s All About Birds site and click on the green LISTEN button.

Why I love the gnatcatcher

No bird is dressed more finely. With its stark white eye-ring, its sleek blue crown and its long, snazzy, black tail trimmed with white edges, it reminds me of a Gilded Age gentleman in tails and top hat.

It is one of the smallest of birds, yet it’s as full of personality as an eagle.

Even when it’s still a baby.

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They were baby ducks, lined up two by two on a limb. I didn’t see an adult duck, and I couldn’t help feeling concerned.

I searched with my binoculars for a few minutes. Where was their mother? Had some huge hawk grabbed her? Or had she left her babies in the care of Auntie Elm so she could have a moment to herself?

Something looked comforting, even protective, about the fallen tree. Until about five years ago, it stood tall and had a career photosynthesizing sunlight. It fed the caterpillars in its leaves. Then nesting songbirds fed the caterpillars to their young.

After it died and fell into the pond, the tree began nurturing turtles, dragonflies, and frogs. Now it looked like it was tending eight baby ducks who were waiting for their mother.

After a while I noticed that the mother Wood Duck was swimming near the babies. I had not seen her reappear. She was just there.

The babies stood up, took a wobbly step, dropped into the water, and swam fast to catch up with her.

The mother Wood Duck does all the baby care by herself. With her muted colors, which are not so different from the water, she is good at not attracting attention. And not attracting attention is life-or-death to baby ducks, who are tasty and unable to fly.

The drake is great at attracting attention. His colors are useful for courting a mate and discouraging other males from contesting his ownership of a nesting cavity. But for protecting his own young, his looks would be a liability.

So fancy father Wood Duck keeps company with the mother while courting. By the time the babies leave the nest he is somewhere else, being gorgeous, protecting his babies by staying away.

The baby ducks grew quickly in the pond. I saw them nearly every day for a couple of weeks. With their mother, they stayed near the edge. I saw how the whole family could disappear into the shade of oak trees that hung low over the pond.

It was a fine place for baby Wood Ducks, with acorns to eat, as well as occasional dragonfly nymphs and small frogs. Every time I saw them, there were still eight. Their mother was doing a good job. Along with the pond and a fallen American Elm.

One day I realized the whole family was gone. They’re probably down on Crow Creek now, growing into big ducks. Swimming among the nurturing fallen trees.

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He does not sing only in the morning. He has too much to say for that, and so he goes on all day. Sometimes I think he's a rapper, with something urgent on his mind. I feel his rhythm even though I can't follow every word.

Unlike many songbirds, the catbird does not have a set of standard phrases. He’s said to mimic of other birds’ sounds, but it’s hard for me to find a pure note of robin or titmouse in his song.

When he uses phrases from other birds, he assembles them in novel recombinations. In this, his music reminds me of human speech. It is nuance. Poetry.

As if to sign his art, he meows, like the creature that lent him its name.

A little trust

He postures poetically, too. When he lands near me with a jaunty bounce, he shows confidence, style, and attitude.

Catbirds nest somewhere close by my house, which was built on their land. Sometimes one comes close and looks at me with interest. We study each other. I feel she trusts me a little.

Maybe she remembers the mealworms I put out last year for the bluebirds. She started coming in close long before the bluebirds did. I fetch some mealworms for her right away. As if she’d asked in so many words.

She’s right back as soon as I put out the live food. I can’t tell her from another catbird or even guess her gender. But she seems to know all about me. Clearly this is a bird who observes.

I can’t resist saying “she,” though “he” is just as likely. Only the female broods the eggs. Both parents feed their young. The two sexes look alike. Only a male sings, but I cannot guess the gender of a silent catbird.

Gray Catbirds are not entirely gray. The cap is black and contrasts decoratively. More impressive, the birds hide their finest decoration where it is seldom seen, on the feathers that cover the base of the tail’s underside: rufous-colored, raw-silk undertail coverts.

Although I’m always watching for that flash of orange, the catbird usually keeps it out of sight. I’m very pleased when I get a glimpse.

Meow!

Often I hear an Eastern Towhee first, repeating his short song over and over. He sings from up high, on a snag in the woods outside the bedroom.

Drink your tea!

The song starts with two notes. The second one is lower: Drink your…
and concludes with an emphatic trill: tea!

If my ears could see, his song would look like this:

Asking my computer to slow down a towhee’s song lets our human ears resolve more of the complex detail. Here is the male singing Drink your tea three times, played at half the normal speed. Notice how the pitch of the trill descends every so subtly over its duration.

I don’t see Eastern Towhees every day. However, the male’s songs keep me aware of the life that he and his mate are living close by, sharing the same land where my mate and I live.

Secretively, they hang out in the woods. They like the forest floor, where they jump and scratch in the leaf litter for seeds and small prey such as insects. I’ve wondered if I might be walking right past their nest, hidden on the ground among coralberry and wild gooseberry.

It’s easy to recognize the male. He is ferociously handsome, with his dark red eye, with his black hood and wings, his rusty sides.

The female has the same shape — round body, long tail, and cone-shaped beak. Same ruby eye. She shares the male’s color pattern, but her hood and back are milk-chocolate brown.

She stays out of sight most of the time, and I feel lucky whenever I do get a good look at her. She makes a few chirps, whinnies, and soft songs, but she never perches at the top of a tree and sings out Drink your tea! the way the male does.

His song is not for human ears. He sings to declare that he owns of a patch of woods near my home. His music is also part of his courting behavior.

He sings for her.

But as I lie a few minutes longer in my bed of a spring morning, I enjoy the song as if it were radiating into the morning air just for me.

At breakfast, sometimes I hear him again… as I drink my tea.

Recordings of Eastern Towhee by Diane Porter

Oh! Hello.

They billed. They cooed.

And with lifted wings new life began.