Gray Catbird is an abstract painter, working in the medium of song. His startling strokes and jabs of color fill his canvas every morning. It is an exhibitionistic repertoire for a bird dressed in such drab tones of gray.
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!
So timely! I just identified one yesterday. The song id on Merlin helped. The bird was on the cupola of our barn.
“Our” catbirds are a delight. The other morning, the male took the stage in the willow tree that shades a birdbath and delivered a virtuoso 47-second jazz aria. His mate favors the overhead wisteria vines that cover our pergola. There’s another birdbath nearby, and she can feast on earwigs amid the vines, then swoop down for a drink and a refreshing bathe.