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.
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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.