Late in December I noticed one morning that my suet was covered with tiny little light gray birds that I had never seen before. About thirty clustered together almost like the way bats do. High pitched chirps, peeps, and chattering filled the air. All plumages of these little birds are similar; They have gray caps, blue-gray upper-parts, and white or buff colored under - parts.
 
I continued to be regaled by these little birds for about two months. They are now disappearing either because they are migrating elsewhere or in part because at least one hundred noisy evening grosbeaks have taken over the porch.
 
The Pygmy Nuthatch (Sitta pygmaea) is a tiny roundish songbird less than four inches long. They range from British Columbia, south through various ‘discontinuous’ parts of the northwest, Sierra Nevada range, southern Rockies and down to Mexico.

Pygmy nuthatches are amazing acrobats, clambering through the cottonwood branches; less often they creep along limbs or the trunk like bigger nuthatches. I can literally watch them for hours.

They are supposed to live almost exclusively in long-needled pine forests and are particularly closely associated with ponderosa pines. Their normal forest habitat includes stands of older, large trees, pines, oak, aspen maple and fir so what were they doing here? Since they depend upon cavities in old trees (snags) for roosting and nesting, Pygmy Nuthatches are most abundant in forests that have escaped heavy logging and snag removal. They range up to 10,000 feet in the California mountains, and even higher in Mexico.

Pygmy Nuthatches eat insects, other invertebrates and seeds. Here, besides the suet cakes they loved (a fact that this writer never found in print) they also feasted on both sunflower and mixed seeds.

During the breeding season they eat mostly arthropods—including beetles, wasps, ants, bugs, caterpillars, and spiders—by probing cracks, scaling off loose bark, and gleaning from needle clusters and cones. Pygmy Nuthatches cache seeds year-round by hammering them into crevices or under flakes of bark on the tree, saving them for later.

The male appears to take the lead in choosing a woodpecker hole or natural cavity as a nest site, usually in the trunk of a ponderosa pine or other long-needled pine, but sometimes in other species. Pygmy Nuthatches nest in live trees, dead trees, dead parts of live trees, and nest boxes.

Pygmy Nuthatches can excavate their own cavities, but often they just enlarge and adapt existing ones, creating irregular holes about 5–10 inches deep and 1–6 inches across. Both the male and the female, sometimes assisted by their offspring from previous years, help dig out the nest cavity and bring lining materials. In the bottom of the hole they build a nest cup of bark shreds, fine moss, grass, plant down, fur, wool, snakeskin, cocoons, and often feathers. They may also stuff similar materials in crevices within the cavity, helping to weatherproof the nest. The pair keeps lining the nest during egg-laying during which time 5 -9 eggs are laid. The nestlings fledge in about a month.

Pygmy Nuthatches are cooperative breeders: about one third of breeding pairs get help raising their young from 1–3 male relatives. These are often the breeding pair’s own sons from previous years; they help defend the nest and feed incubating females and chicks. To deter squirrels, Pygmy Nuthatches may sway threateningly from side to side or even cover the entrance with their bodies to make it less visible. In winter, multiple family groups join up to form large, chattering, highly social flocks that range over a foraging territory. These flocks also forage with other species including warblers, chickadees, bushtits, kinglets, woodpeckers, and juncos. This is exactly what happened here. In cold weather they seek out well-insulated cavities to spend the night. Pairs roost together and juveniles roost with their parents as part of larger groups.

Sometimes more than 150 individuals sleep in a single tree, stacked up in squares, triangles, diamonds, oblongs, or tiers of birds. They use controlled hypothermia to withstand cold winter nights, a strategy which no other North American bird species uses in combination with group-roosting in cavities. At dusk every evening I could see what looked like hundreds gathered in the single closest cottonwood tree to the porch. They always arrived to feed at dawn.

Because Pygmy Nuthatches have a tendency to move around in large groups it makes them difficult to count as I learned trying to figure out how many of these delightful little birds I had on my porch at one time. I put out two extra suet cakes to keep them happy!

Throughout the twentieth century, logging, grazing, and fire suppression converted many ponderosa pine forests into mosaics of differently aged trees and dense thickets. The Pygmy Nuthatch population has declined as a result, since the nuthatches rely on mature pines and standing dead trees for suitable nest sites and foraging habitat. No doubt the catastrophic decline of insect species has also taken a toll on these little birds. Forest managers could help Pygmy Nuthatches and a host of other birds that nest in cavities by allowing some dead trees to remain standing. People can help increase Pygmy Nuthatch abundance by installing nest boxes in disturbed forest, which can double the number of breeding pairs in an area. Though they’re useful for nesting during the breeding season, boxes are rarely used for year-round roosting.

Until this wild flock descended on me I had never even seen a Pygmy nuthatch before so I was particularly grateful to have them around for so long.
 

This morning I listened to great horned owls courting in the pre-dawn hours and the night before last I was awakened by a screech owl’s high pitched whinny. It’s also January, the month many owls are creating territorial space for breeding, so it’s no wonder that owls are on my mind.
 
The ‘who ho ho hoo hoo hoo’ courting call of the male – a sort of mild monochromatic whoohing - is a very pleasing sound while the haunting whinny of the female is impossible to mistake. The latter, the female’s call, awakened me in the middle of the night two nights ago, but I never heard a male respond. I give thanks every single day for living so close to water because owls are drawn to wetlands for hunting and I have a penchant for all owls.
 
My friend Andrew who lives in El Rito had a remarkable experience with a couple of western screech owls. In his own words, returning to his unfinished house after having been away all winter he writes,
 
 “The evening I got in, I set the mattress down on the floor of the kitchen and went to sleep.  I woke up and looked up at the beams and there they were!!  Two gorgeous creatures staring down at me.” 
 
The two little screech owls were perched on the rafters above him. Oh, I would have given anything to see what he saw! Although they left after his return, he can still hear them calling.
 
Eastern and Western screech owls are different but very similar species that overlap in the Rio Grande valley. They both have white undersides streaked with black (a cinnamon colored variation exists in the eastern species). Both have identical   ear tufts and black circles around their yellow eyes. Sometimes the tufts are raised and at other times they are barely visible. The females are larger than the males. Eastern and western screech owls are usually told apart by their bill color that is greenish gray for the eastern type and gray to black for the western owls.

The two owls also have slightly different calls with the western species sounding a bit more like a wail (though personally I cannot make a distinction between the two). To stay in contact, screech-owls use a short "double trill" call; when agitated, they make a barking sound. Another interesting vocalization occurs when Screech-Owls snap their bills when approached closely by a potential predator, or someone like me who is on the watch for owls all the time. Nestlings begin making this noise when they are about 8 days old. It is most definitely a defensive call.
 
Screech-Owls live mainly in forested habitats, especially in bands of deciduous trees along wetlands and canyons. Common trees include cottonwood, aspen, and other poplars, alder, water birch, oak, and maple. It is also possible to find Screech owls in suburbs, parks coastal areas, and in mountains up to about 6,000 feet in elevation (Andrew lives at 7000 feet).

Screech-Owls are carnivores. They eat mostly small mammals, though they also feast on birds, fish, amphibians, and invertebrates including scorpions. Their diet can vary tremendously from place to place and from season to season. Mammal prey includes pocket mice, deer-mice, grasshopper mice, shrews, wood -rats, kangaroo rats, as well as bats and rabbits. Invertebrates include insects, crayfish, worms, slugs, snails, and whip scorpions.

Like most owls Screech owls are sit-and-wait predators, perching inconspicuously on tree branches peering around for a meal. They also sometimes sit above creeks and rivers watching for crayfish to emerge from the shallows. They snatch invertebrates from foliage and catch flying insects in midair. They prey on bats leaving a roost.

Like many small owls (8 inches in length), Screech owls nest in tree cavities excavated by woodpeckers. They may also use naturally occurring cavities, such as those formed where branches have broken off a trunk. Occasionally, they nest in holes or crevices in cliffs and banks. Wherever the location, the male owl finds a suitable home, then calls or leads the female to it, sometimes by carrying an enticing prey item. A pair may use the same cavity for several years in a row.

The day after the November election I was walking down the road and was dumbfounded to find a solitary wing and talon of an owl that had not been there 10 minutes earlier. Because the Saw Whet was the first of the road - killed owls I found thirty years ago, I recognized the wing pattern immediately. A single talon remained with the wing. Some avian predator had perhaps dropped the owl and then devoured most of it in the brief time since I had passed by. Distressed, I gathered up the wing and talon and brought it home, spreading out the beautiful little feathers into a fan and tacked it to the wall as a way to honor all owls. Saw-whet owls are native to this continent and one of the smallest owl species in North America.

With the huge decline in bird species – a conservative estimate is that we have lost half of all our birds globally – it is not surprising that the Saw Whets have not escaped the ravages of Climate Change. They are listed as a “vulnerable” species, one notch down from endangered. Why is it that we don’t notice the diminishing of all species of birds unless we are especially attached to one? As a naturalist who can’t help but note the loss of so many non - human friends and feels such grief on a daily basis, I can’t wrap my mind around other people’s apparent indifference.

Because it is January and most owls are beginning courtship this is the time to begin listening for owl calls. A couple of weeks ago I heard the triple hoo down by the water and was delighted. This is the first time I have heard the Saw Whet owl in many years. These little owls used to be quite common but are disappearing from all their ranges as previously mentioned. Habitat loss is the most common reason given, but I suspect Climate Change may be affecting the populations as well. They prefer forested areas so raging southwest fires, so called “controlled burning” and extensive logging have destroyed many of the places where Saw Whets breed. Curiously, these owls can be found across southern Canada and the northern and western United States, as well as in Mexico but the pattern of their migration is unknown. They seem to prefer mature forest with an open under story for foraging, deciduous trees for nesting, dense conifers for roosting, and like having a river or stream nearby. Saw Whets winter in dense forest throughout their breeding range and across most of the United States. Normally they do not breed in the far southern states although New Mexico is home to some.

The Saw Whet owl has very sophisticated hearing due to having vertically asymmetrical ears and ear openings that are also a different shape. Because sound reaches the ears at a different time and is of different intensity, the Saw-Whet owl can very precisely localize its prey and can hunt by hearing alone.

Saw-whet Owls eat mostly small mammals, hunting them at night from a low perch along the forest edge. The most common prey are deer mice, shrews, moles, voles, crayfish and frogs and the young of larger animals. They also eat beetles, grasshoppers, moths, and other insects (the ubiquitous irresponsible use of pesticides is another reason they are disappearing). This tiny owl with yellow eyes and a catlike face is a fierce hunter who will save part of its prey for a second meal, and if it freezes, will use its incubation skills to defrost dinner! During migration, Saw Whets supplement their diet with birds.

Females probably choose the nest site, although males sometimes participate by perching in potential sites while giving their too-too-too call. Males provide nearly all of the food while females are incubating and brooding the young. Saw Whets prefer to nest in previously excavated holes - those of flickers or other woodpeckers provide wonderful homes. They gravitate to dead snags so please don’t cut yours down! They also use nest boxes, something my friend Barbara might consider.
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Saw-whets lay their 4 - 7 eggs on debris at the bottom of the cavity lined with woodchips, twigs, moss, grass, hair, and even small mammal bones. Nest holes may be 8–44 feet off the ground. The young fledge in about a month.

Some year-round resident males or pairs probably maintain territories throughout the year, but each year these owls apparently pair up with new mates (there is just so much we don’t know). Saw Whets are preyed on by larger raptors, including Eastern Screech-Owls, Spotted Owls, Great Horned Owls, Cooper’s Hawks, Broad-winged Hawks, and Peregrine Falcons. They roost during the day in thick conifers and are mobbed by crows, ravens and even flocks of songbirds. In my opinion, paying attention to all this commotion is probably the best way to discover where any owl is hiding.

If you are ever fortunate to meet a Saw Whet you are in for a treat because they are so cute! Because Saw Whets are strictly nocturnal they are seldom seen so it’s something of a mystery as to how I happened to come upon one during the day, even a dead one.  

My grandmother fed the crows every afternoon and I can remember their cries of anticipation as she walked out into the field with a pail full of scraps. After my grandmother’s death, it was many years before my mother began feeding her crows. But after she started she often remarked that she heard them say, “Oh here she comes!”  
 
Up until recently I didn’t know why my grandmother and mother had a penchant for crows – I wish I had asked. But my neighbor Rose in Maine has been feeding her crows for ten years, and a month ago when I learned that all of her crows had been shot by hunters on her own land, I was enraged by this injustice. Rose loved her crows; She was devastated.
 
First, I discussed the problem with Raven who was perched in a cottonwood tree outside my door. He listened intently to my plea for help while peering down at me with one beady eye.
 
Normally, I do not have crows around here so ten minutes later when a “murder of crows” appeared screaming over my head as I walked down to the river I knew the raven had passed on the message. I repeated the story to the screeching crows asking that they inform other crows in Rose’s neighborhood that she was in crow mourning. Would they consider asking others to visit her? I took their collective cries as a yes.
 
Returning to the house I was stunned to see another cluster of crows perched in one tree engaged in raucous conversation with at least 4 magpies that had joined them. The raven had been joined by its mate (A bevy of crows, two ravens and four magpies stayed around the house for 3 days).
 
Convinced that I had been heard, and that something would come of it, I immediately emailed Rose telling her not to give up, to keep leaving scraps outside, and to begin to “call” new crows into her yard. She was skeptical, but did as I asked. As a personal thank you I began to leave tasty tidbits for the crows, ravens, magpies around here. 
 
One week later Rose had seven new crows to feed, and as of this writing, crows continue to return! The skeptic will immediately counter the obvious with westernized logic: namely that the crows returned by coincidence, or because at my request, Rose continued to leave food out for them. There’s one major flaw in this thinking: Crows routinely demonstrate to researchers that once one of them has been killed the rest will avoid a favored feeding area for up to two years. “Something” intervened to reverse this normal crow behavior, allowing the crows to return, and I believe it had everything to do with interspecies communication.
 
Armed with the knowledge that birds and animals can communicate telepathically through space/time, I never doubted that help would come. If one understands as I do that telepathy is a biological survival strategy that allows animals to stay in touch when they are separated then it isn’t a stretch to believe that these crows communicated with their Maine relatives. (Please go to biologist/plant physicist/author Rupert Sheldrake’s site to learn more about the extensive research that has been done on telepathy in animals - https://www.sheldrake.org).
 


I think I just heard the cawing of a murder of crows…

As a young child I remember going to tree farms to choose the beloved Christmas tree of the year. The fragrant scent of balsam was the last gift the annual  tree gifted us with as her needles dried, turned brown and dropped. I always remember feeling so sad that the tree was left to die after lighting up the house with luminous white lights.
 
When I married and moved to Monhegan Island, ten miles off the cost of Maine, I cut down my own Christmas tree in the forest. Since we had no electricity the tree was festooned with candles and homemade ornaments – I can still recall how beautiful that first tree was, and after Christmas I couldn’t bare to throw it out so I made all kinds of bird treats and placed them on the tree outdoors, a tradition I continued until the day came when I couldn’t stand to cut one more tree to the ground…
 
At this point the first live tree, the Norfolk Island Pine, came to live with us. With a profound sense of relief flooding me, my new friend also became our Christmas tree, a tree that lived on long after the season ended. I didn’t miss the scent of balsam because I continued to go into the forest every year to tip boughs for at least three wreaths – one for outdoors, the other two to use in the house (proper tipping actually encourages new growth). I was astonished and delighted by the tree’s beautiful weeping branches and straight trunk, although I was a bit astounded at how fast she grew. I loved that tree and was also so grateful because she had solved the problem of tree slaughter for me.
 
When I first began celebrating the winter solstice after my children were in late adolescence, the tree complied quite happily. I still had my grandmother’s miniature white lights that always stayed cool when lit, so every year she continued to light up the night … I now understood because of my academic study of world mythology, that for me, this indoor tree embodied so much more than the season’s turning – She was the “Tree of Life.” No wonder I had such difficulty chopping down and throwing out trees, year after year.
 
When I moved from the coast to the western mountains of Maine that tree went with me. She was getting too big for me to lift, and I had to get help re –potting her. In the summer she loved being outdoors, although the first year I gave her a sunburn by accident. I discovered she preferred the north side of the house.
 
Divorced, with absentee adult children I continued to drape her with lights for each winter solstice until the year my grandmother’s lights stopped working. After that I stopped because I was afraid the new hot lights would stress the pine and burn her needles. Instead I placed small animals and birds amongst tree branches and hung crystals from her boughs.
 
Most exciting to me this year is that my Norfolk Island Pine (who is actually a small forest of trees that friend Iren gave me) has chosen to sprout new growth in the fall instead of last spring/summer. I can’t get over this lush winter growth spurt because like all trees the pine normally rests in low winter light. I have never had this happen before. The edges of my tree’s fronds are deep emerald green and bushy green sprouts top each tree in the miniature forest. My bond with her/them runs deep, like a great underground river of song. I mist her every morning, touch her fronds and talk to her. With long starry nights upon us I have ringed her base with lights as I celebrate the joy of loving all trees even as the trees outdoors slip into their winter sleep…
 
A few words about the natural history of this tree:

This morning in the eastern pre-dawn glow I watched the Sand hill Cranes drift out of the pale blue, curved bow shaped gray wings and long extended feet touching bare ground. I felt privileged once again to witness this most gracious of descents. Their haunting cries strike a note like no other, leaving wonder in their wake…
 
To begin this day with roses in the sky, the appearance of these birds, followed by a luminous sunrise was a gift that transported me back to the Bosque del Apache where I witnessed these birds as individuals and as huge flocks soaring over my head by the hundreds, their long graceful necks and heads, full bodies and great gray outstretched wings responding to some collective cue that determined their immediate direction.
 
What struck me forcibly was how these birds interact intimately, as individuals and as a group. My first moments at the Bosque were spent at one of the ponds where I was able to listen to individuals calling out to each other from at least four directions while being answered by those on the water, long before small groups appeared on the horizon to join the twelve in front of me. Their individual conversation is as astonishingly musical, and so constant that I am left marveling over what these exchanges might mean…
 
Collectively, these ancient (possibly 100 million year old) birds do not exhibit any particular flight pattern as they fly in pairs or groups from one feeding place to another on the sedge covered, cattail tipped, rust colored marshes, but then most will winter here until spring migration calls them home to the North…
 
The Snow geese were another matter entirely. Whenever they took flight they did so en masse and to see hundreds – even thousands of these birds circling in the air a number of times before deciding upon a direction – pure white feathers against an azure sky – was bewildering, almost beyond comprehension.
 
The “bird woman” in me has never had an experience that could compare with visiting this Refuge. I spent the entire time in a state of mind-body awe. The location is astonishing – great brown reptilian dragons stretched across the plains – a cobalt dome arced overhead - apparently endless marshlands mirrored deep sky. Add to this three hundred species of birds some of which were hiding in the reeds like the black crowned heron, bittern, killdeer, or the numerous species of ducks - pintails, shovelers, mallards, - that were bobbing up and down in the water. Some crowded together in the trees like the quail and white winged doves. Raptors like the Northern Harrier and Cooper’s hawk soared. A bald headed eagle flew across the marsh forcing an entire flock of geese into the air. Redwings fed at feeders placed outdoors at the visitor center. Mule Deer paused to gaze as they crossed the road… Coming here highlights the perception that bird/animal watching is one of the great miracles of life.
 
Before the trip I asked myself what was most important to me about this upcoming adventure into bird - land. I could answer this question with ease: Being fully present for the experience. Armed with the knowledge that my good camera and binoculars would interfere, I wisely left both behind. I took my IPhone to snap a few quick pictures.
 
In retrospect I am even more grateful than I could have imagined about making this choice because I carry the sight and sounds of this ‘Vision of the Bosque Birds’ in my body and mind on a level that allows me to return without effort to the Refuge, a place where time ceases to exist.
 
This morning the appearance of the Sand hill cranes was the trigger, but I note that almost any natural occurrence acts as a pathway to the all the birds at the Bosque - the willows that have turned deep rose with the first frost, the first bird song of the day, or the daily appearance of my beautiful suet loving flickers are a few examples.
 
In a very real sense some part of me found a home at the Bosque del Apache, and remains there with my avian friends; a woman with wings who takes to the air as a new dawn draws near…

When I moved into my house last June I immediately made friends with a few sagebrush lizards that were already living here. A mated pair lived on the south wall, two more moved in after the garden wall was built, though I was never sure they were a couple, and one male used the compost bin as his lair as soon as that structure was completed. A female appeared a few weeks later to join the wily compost lizard who had a steady supply of insects at his front door! After I dug my toad pool the compost couple could often be found basking on the stones until mid –morning when they returned outback to their fragrant rotting heap.
 
Every morning and evening when I went out to water the two that lived on the south wall joined me. I named these two the “house lizards” because unlike the others these two were always around and their interest in my behavior was unmistakable. I greeted them with great enthusiasm each day and often both would bow to the sound of my voice.
 
 Lizards court in May and June. Although I knew that bowing and shuddering were part of sagebrush lizard mating rituals, the literature states that only males used this device to attract a female. Both house lizards used this form of greeting to respond to me all summer until they finally disappeared for good about a week ago (end of October). The others used this gesture on occasion to acknowlege my inquiry into their well - being. Obviously, lizard bowing has more than one function.
 
 Sagebrush lizards are supposed to be very territorial, especially during mating season with the male having more than one partner but my observations indicate otherwise.
 
The sagebrush lizard is typically smaller than other lizards – about five inches or less in length. In appearance, sagebrush lizards are grey, brown or olive, with hints of blue or green. Females have white or yellow bellies, and males have distinctive cobalt blue patches on the abdomen and throat, although the throat patch can be absent. During the breeding season, males may develop orange breeding colors (mine did not). Young lizards look similar to adults, but lack the stunning iridescent blue markings.
 
The point I want to make is that it was very easy to distinguish each lizard by its distinct markings and within about two weeks I could identify all my lizards by sight. None of the six lizards had other mates and each pair occupied the same niche all summer until August when one of the garden wall lizards disappeared. None of these lizards seemed territorial unless the territory consisted of living on one particular wall, and the compost lizards moved from the front of the house to the back sometimes passing within inches of the house and garden wall lizards without ever being harassed.
 
 I knew that after mating 8 – 10 eggs would probably be deposited under nearby brush. These would hatch in approximately two months into baby lizards less than an inch long. I had high hopes for my house lizards, imagining a baby lizard clinging from my adobe wall around the beginning of September!
 
I couldn’t get over the discrepancy between the sheer numbers of very common whiptails that raced around the grassland around my feet and the very few sagebrush lizards that lived here until I read that sagebrush lizards were suffering a severe loss of habitat due to agriculture, intensive grazing, and oil developments in western states. Aerial spraying of insecticides has decimated many insect populations, including ants, beetles, grasshoppers, flies, butterflies and spiders. (To my absolute horror I discovered that ant poison had been deposited outside the south door before I moved in here but it was removed when I expressed how lethal this poison was for my dogs). As soon as I arrived I planted a hummingbird garden to attract bees and other insects and soon ants were scurrying about so I think the house lizards had plenty to eat.
​
During the intolerable heat the house lizards spent their time clinging to the wall under my vining nasturtium patch, the garden wall lizards hugged the underside of a big piece of rounded cottonwood, and the compost lizards simply disappeared down under. All would re- appear when I did late in the day. These lizards are strictly diurnal and do not migrate although they may travel to lay eggs or to seek shelter during the cold.

Lizards are not active during winter; they enter a state of dormancy called brumation, which is not the same as hibernation. With both, metabolic processes slow down, but with brumation the lizards alternate dormancy with activity. They need to drink water to avoid dehydration. Lizards build up a high level of glycogen (sugar) that can be used for muscle activity. They also need less oxygen to breathe and this is a good thing because some dig holes in mud where oxygen levels are lower. Others  hide underground in old burrows, in rock crevices,  or under leaves. I love knowing that my lizards will still be around even if I don’t see them.

On September 11th I noticed what looked like a weird bug on one of my southern screens. Imagine my joy when I went outdoors to investigate and discovered that what I was seeing was a baby lizard (about ¾ of an inch). Just below him, (I believe - no evidence for this parental relationship/concern in any literature anywhere but I don’t subscribe to coincidence) his proud parents basked on the windowsill. Most literature states that baby lizards immediately seek their own territory but this one did not. He and his parents continued to stay together until the adults finally disappeared about a week ago, the last adults to seek shelter. I am pretty sure they are hiding in my woodpile on the porch.

Baby lizard is still out and about as I write this story. Totally by accident I created a perfect winter lizard abode when I recently built my little half moon rock garden on the south wall.
After finding baby lizard in the house one morning and fearing mishap I placed him in the new half moon garden with a bowl of water and he has lived there ever since! A couple of days ago a new adolescent compost lizard that arrived late last month moved into the moon garden just after shedding his last skin so now there are two living in this protected rock lined space
I am already anticipating lizard emergence in the spring  wondering what new knowledge and insight I will gain as this enthusiastic naturalist observes and renews old friendships…
 

Now I understand why juncos are called snowbirds! This year their arrival coincided with the first Sangre de Christo snow cover – such a welcome sight! For the past few days a flock of least a hundred juncos have been present in my front yard and are currently feeding not just at the feeding trees (elm and Russian olive) but also from the porch where I can keep a close eye on their behavior and differences in color.
 
This morning one hit the window – hard – I rushed out and sure enough one little male was gasping for breath with rapidly closing eyes. Never a good sign. I rushed him in the house and dribbled sugar water over his beak. No response. My grief mounted. You would think after witnessing so many deaths of small birds over the years that one more wouldn’t matter so much, but in my case each death seems worse than the one before, probably because I am so aware that each bird is a precious jewel because we are losing so many to climate change and loss of habitation. I held him tenderly, thinking that if he died at least he wouldn’t be alone… Amazingly, after about 15 minutes he began to struggle in my hand regarding me with one piercing coal black eye. As I spoke to him he settled peacefully in my hand. My two dogs and Lily b were on high alert, their compassion obvious. Finally, I took a chance and placed him on the outdoor railing. He immediately fluttered helplessly to the porch floor with what I believed was a broken wing. Oh no, I thought, not again, remembering all the times I had killed birds that couldn’t fly, hoping to save them from a protracted dying… I gathered a few seeds and a bit of water placing the two containers next to him. That he trusted me was obvious. When he began to eat I left him for a while before the big test. When I gathered the little bird in my palm I set him on a low bush. No movement. And then, suddenly, a fly away. He had survived! This little bird life brought a rush of pure joy into my day. And at that very moment the music of the white crowned sparrow filled my ears.
 
Why is it that birds of the same species may look very different in various regions but have the same name? For instance, Dark-eyed Juncos in the Pacific Northwest may have a reddish back and a dark “hood” (Oregon race), while Dark-eyed Juncos in the northeast are generally a slate-gray color, without a hood (slate-colored race). All this classification makes me crazy. At present I have three different looking juncos visiting on the porch and each one is beautiful!
 
With such a broad range and variable ecology, it is not surprising that the Dark-eyed Junco occurs in a staggering array of habitats. In the boreal region, it nests in both coniferous and hardwood forests, especially those with relatively sparse tree cover and dense understory. Elsewhere, it occurs in virtually any habitat with sufficiently dense low vegetation for nesting.
During migration and winter this bird can be found in an even broader range of habitats, including areas with relatively little cover such as harvested crop fields, grassy lakeshores, lawns, and road margins.
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Most (including all northern) populations are migratory. The peaks of migration are in October and March/April. The winter range extends across southern Canada and virtually all of the lower 48 states into northern Mexico. Juncos are found year-round throughout much of the West, Great Lakes region, Northeast (not in Western Maine where I lived), and Appalachians, though these areas experience complete or partial turnover of individuals. Adults, especially females, tend to migrate farther (and begin migration earlier) in eastern populations.

Juncos are abundant in Northern forests during the breeding season. An estimated 80% of the North American population breeds within the Boreal Forest. The junco is also one of the most familiar birds at North American bird feeders. They are ground dwellers and feed on seeds and small fruits in the open. During breeding season they feast on insects. Juncos move through the lower branches of trees and seek shelter in the tangle of shrubs or thick grasses like the ones in my front yard. 
 
Although birds of both sexes tend to have only one  mate with which they nest and defend a territory, they also mate with neighboring birds. As a result, males raise many young that are not their own. Usually four bluish -green eggs are laid, with larger clutches more frequent early in the season and smaller clutches late. The compact nest of rootlets, shreds of bark, twigs, and mosses, lined with grasses and hair is placed on or near the ground. The young are able to run before they can fly, if necessary, because their legs develop quickly. Southern populations normally attempt to raise two broods per year. Nest predation, particularly by rodents, is very high, and overall productivity is highly correlated with rodent density.
There is something wonderful about watching these sparrows interact with one another and their relatives. Some literature states that Juncos are territorial all year round. This may be true during breeding, but in the non - breeding season juncos and other sparrows seem to enjoy each others company, at least in my experience.

Tomorrow we are supposed to have the first freezing temperatures and I am watering my adopted juniper, the first tree species that I fell in love with when I came to Abiquiu, because of its fantastic myriad of shapes, its tenacious ability to cling to cliff edges and because so many of these trees are allowed to live out their natural lifespans of a few hundred to a thousand years or more. Now my love and amazement for these drought resistant trees has deepened into genuine concern because this summer’s drought has turned clumps of needles brown on most of the junipers on the mesas and many appear to be dying unnaturally (very old trees do have a strange half dead look that is normal). Anyone with eyes can see how dis - stressed these trees are.
 
 Water is Life. Here in the river valley, including the Bosque there are fewer dead patches but little or no new growth on the junipers. A few days ago I took a tape measure to measure new spikes on the solitary juniper that I water, noting that most fronds had bright blue green spires measuring twelve inches or more. Although I am happy for my tree I am also frightened because it is clear that we are now living the ravages of climate change and most of the junipers around here have little or no new growth and are not doing well.
 
Western junipers are an “indicator species.” If they are showing signs of stress from lack of water then other less resilient trees are even more threatened. Not to take heed of this juniper tree warning would be a grave mistake. For me, the upside of this knowing has validated my belief that I must stay with native flowering plants and because of what the junipers are saying instead of planting fruit and other trees I am going to choose more junipers. Fortunately, there are many beautiful cultivars to choose from. My neighbor Bruce has a gorgeous blue green gray green teardrop shaped juniper that is definitely on my list. It even has a huge bird’s nest hidden within its boughs.
 
Western junipers are dimorphic, meaning that they have two growth forms. One is upright (like my tree), and the other, much more common is bush-like opening to the sun like a flower. Even the biggest trees are not taller than 40 feet. The seedlings especially bear bluish green awl shaped leaves that are pointed at the tip. Mature leaves are a darker green and scale - like in appearance. The older leaves are borne in pairs or whorls of three and are rounded at the tip. The arrangement of the adult “leaves” in a circular pattern gives the twigs and uncanny resemblance to coral. 
 
Although juniper and cedar are related – both belong to the cypress family - cedars produce small woody cones while junipers produce a bluish berry –like cone. Most junipers are dioecious, meaning that male and female cones are found on separate trees and once you observe the difference it is easy to differentiate between the two (to make things confusing some junipers have both male and female cones on one tree). The male cones are brownish in appearance and very small. These latter produce pollen sacs that release pollen grains in spring and summer, as many people that suffer from allergies know. The female cones look like berries. As the trees age some of the trunks become twisted and gnarled.
 
Junipers are one of the top ten plants for wildlife. Many birds love their berries and around here the Cedar waxwings, the Townsend solitaire, and American robins flock to the juniper cluster that shades the ground. I also see Dark Eyed juncos, Canyon towhees, and House finches scratching the ground under the tree. Collared doves, Pinion jays, Magpies, sparrows, and Western bluebirds to mention a few, gather in these trees for protection from hawk predation. And when winter winds are fierce and deadly, birds of all kinds seek protection from the bitter cold in the junipers’ thick branches.
 
To survive in dry climates, western junipers have long taproots and extensive lateral root systems that can efficiently obtain moisture where none seems to exist. They are intolerant of shade, so if you are going to plant some give them space and lots of sun.

For the past couple of weeks, streaks of blue have been diving into the trees under my bird feeder to search for dropped seed. First one, and now about four raucous scrub jays are conversing and mimicking – they have such an amazing vocabulary if you listen. My dove Lily b has had a special relationship with some blue jays in Maine and I note that he is continuing this trend here in Abiquiu moving to the window nearest to the jays to coo in response to some of their calls. Strangely, the jays definitely respond to these coos. How I wish I knew why this relationship exists between the two and what keeps the conversation so riveting that Lily b is still actively seeking out these birds out after 27 ( almost 28) years!
 
In Maine, all my raucous blue - jays disappear for the summer. The literature says they move into the forest but I live in a forest, or did, and they don’t stay in there! Every September they return in flocks of up to twenty birds to raid my feeders and this is what the scrub jays are doing here. They are also starting to converse in the Bosque.
 
Jays are members of the Corvid family and I have witnessed blue jays using tools – sticks, in particular, to move a large piece of fat to a place where they can get at it more easily.
 
This morning I was watching the scrub jays through binoculars. There was one youngster amongst the pack. My birdfeeder trips, shutting its doors when a squirrel or really large bird lands on it, and the jays fit into this latter category. I was so inspired by their behavior that I wrote this article!
 
 They aren’t satisfied with dropped seed and have figured out that if one trips the feeder and instantly jumps off some seed is scattered on the ground for the others to feast upon. The jays take turns tripping the feeder so everyone gets extra food.
 
They also use another more acrobatic technique. By hanging upside down on a nearby branch and stretching out their necks, the jays can reach the food with their beaks without actually touching the feeder! I watched one gobble down a host of seeds before ending his contortionist act. The youngster sat on a branch watching the others before dropping to the ground to feed. At some point I am sure that he will imitate his elders. Clever birds! I am impressed.
 
The Western Scrub –Jay’s range extends from Washington south to central Texas and Mexico. Not surprisingly the food-caching behavior of these intelligent birds has been the subject of several studies. These birds plan ahead for times when food isn't readily available. Scrub Jays bury excess seeds and nuts beneath leaves, grass or mulch; and will retrieve them when food sources in their environment are scarce.
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They may also hoard and bury brightly colored objects found in their environment like other Corvids.

According to research, their brain-to-body mass ratio rivals that of chimpanzees, whales and dolphins.

So much for the “bird brain” theory.

Jays like other birds and animals mourn the loss of mates and flock members. They will loudly screech near a dead jay for as long as 30 minutes and remain close to the body for a day or two (I have also witnessed this behavior when Lily b lost all three of his mates with one difference, unlike the jays Lily b mourned in terrible silence).

 Mule deer have been observed allowing scrub jays to hop over their bodies and heads as they search and feed on parasites like ticks. The deer appeared to facilitate the process by standing still and holding up their ears to provide easy access for the jay.

 Scrub-Jays usually forage in pairs, family groups, or very small flocks outside the breeding season. They forage on the ground and in trees, caching much of the food they find and retrieving it later.

These birds are also omnivorous, with a diet that varies by season and region. In summer, they eat many insects, spiders, and snails, and in winter, they shift to berries, acorns, and other seeds. They eat rodents, reptiles, amphibians, and the eggs and young of other bird species in addition to visiting birdfeeders and devouring hunks of fat during the cooler months.
Western Scrub-Jays are typically monogamous, and nest in shrubs or low trees. Both members of the pair help build the nest, which is a thick-walled cup made of grass, twigs, and moss, lined with soft rootlets and hair. The male brings food while the female incubates 3-6 eggs for 15-17 days. Both adults help feed the young, which leave the nest at 18-19 days. They typically raise one brood each year.

Curiously I couldn’t find any information on where scrub jays disappear to in the summer. Perhaps they are still around but (uncharacteristically) secretive while breeding/raising their families?

If you want entertainment just spend some time at the window watching the scrub –jays. I promise that you will not be disappointed!

Image (c) Keith Bowers