Birds with Red Patches and a Mystery Lump in a Tree

Mr. Red-bellied Woodpecker was back today. He sat for a few moments on the edge of the iced over bird bath and looked up. Marian Anderson, my partner in the Owl Who Wasn't escapade had called early and said that the Sandhill Cranes were migrating through. She'd gone outside and it sounded like they were on a branch over her head they were so loud but of course they were high in the sky flapping by. Perhaps they're even higher now and Mr. Red-belly can see them and I can't.

Yesterday V after V of Canada Geese passed over. It's been cold enough north of here for long enough that some of the open water has begun to ice over. With that, a good breeze, and a prediction for snow in northern Wisconsin it seems the Sandhills and the Geese have decided to go while the going is good.


Enough with the staring at the sky, Mr. R-b leans over, shows his red patch to the sky, and gives some hefty taps at the edge of the ice, bringing water from underneath the frozen top to the surface. When he leaves, actually even before he leaves it turns out, the small birds make a dash for the liquid. I'll remove the ice and fill it again when he leaves. Then I focus on his back. Now what would that blend with for camouflage? Light through leaves dappling on bark?

That's when I notice the checkerboard on his side. The common wisdom taught to visual artists is that there are no true straight lines in nature. And these aren't true straight lines but they are the closest I've seen growing on a bird's back certainly.

And later when I'm out, I hear them too. Yes, the Sandhill Cranes are moving back through on their way to their wintering grounds. They have the second red head patch for the day.

More red on the head but this is more rose. The House Finches try out the new feeder. All that sanitizing of the wooden one was taking it's toll. Then it's off to see my mom at the nursing home. On the way back, just as I turn onto County Road M, I do a double take. I've just gone past a dark Red-tail with a heavy belly band sitting on a wooden fence post a few feet from the road.. And I mean a short wooden fence post. The kind the Bluebirds prefer. I stop. He's still there. I get out the stuff. Still have a Red-tail. I push the camera on button, nothing. Bird's still on the post. By the time I push three times with frozen fingers it does come on but of course he took off when I wasn't looking.

Therefore I got a photograph of this Bluebird preferred and now Red-tail preferred wooden fence post.

Okay, what do the Red-tails usually do when they blow me off. They cruise over to the tree row on the far side of the back forty, and thumb their beaks at me. I'll just peruse the tree row and see if I can spot him.

Not a Red-tail, but a red male Cardinal. They do show up so nicely in winter.

Then I scan the trees on the side of the field. What is that?

I pull in closer. I've still no idea. It's not a wasp's nest. It isn't hanging right. An animal? Some sort of weird tree disease? Fungi? Wait, it does look like on the right that there are three dots that might be claws. Foot pads? Is that an ear? A raccoon? Any ideas?

Stunning sunset this evening with the fleeting shapes of birds flapping across the sky now and again.

And last but not least, a link to a NYTimes article on rare Piping Plovers, from the astute, Karen Anne Kolling, grand link finder.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/27/science/27plov.html

2000 doesn't sound like very many to me, especially since their nesting areas are so vulnerable.

Karen Anne Kolling

The Divine Hawks- Kestrel and Crow Attack, Part One B June 6, 2007 on November 26, 2007 (Confused yet?)

No you're not in the wrong place, it's just that---
Back in June, I posted PART TWO of June 6, 2007 and said PART ONE would be following soon. Well one thing led to another and I just discovered that I'd never done it. And since it's been awhile without our having been able to watch nest bound eyasses and their parents, I thought it might be nice to work on it now and post it.

Besides, I never get tired of looking at nests and a new season will be on us before we know it. So I'd better tidy up the last one..


I mean, just look at that face! In fact that was what we were looking at. We were looking at the three eyasses on June 6th. They were cavorting, lining up like sailors in the rigging of a Tall Ship, one, two, three. Therefore in our distraction we hadn't really realized that Isolde and Tristan were having a dangerous battle with two Kestrels and three Crows intermittently.



Tristan with that trademark foot up sees something coming and is off like a shot.

Gabriel's horn is only vacant a few seconds before Isolde takes Tristan's place on the horn.

Two Kestrels dive and swoop at Isolde, she evades by changing postures. Then she flies off the horn, drawing the little raptors away from the nest, she circles over and lands on a stone finial further east. She is leaving herself open as a temptation for the attackers so they will leave the eyasses alone. Not so the three Crows who are intent on raiding the nest.

The kids watch their parents deal with the interlopers. Soon though things will be so hot that all three will plunge into the bowels of the nest and disappear. But that I think is in PART TWO posted back in June.

6:64:15PM A Kestrel dives at Isolde and nabs her. She scrunches down and vocalizes in response.

6:54:27PM She watches, then ducks, as the Kestrel goes over again.

6:54:35PM Tristan returns overhead and draws one of the Kestrels off. Crows are heard to the east.

6:55:45PM Another Kestrel dives.

6:55:11PM Isolde is gone but where?

6:56:28PM Smart girl. She's chosen a perch with a protection for her head and it took us over a minute to find her again. One of the eyasses has a bulging crop but not the other two. With the eyasses this age no matter who's attacking you, hunting must be done, as the kids are bottomless when it comes to food these days. Isolde has spotted prey.

She watches....

...and watches...

...and watches the pattern of the prey.

Something is up. Possibly Tristan on the roof of the Plant Pavilion.

She goes into an alert ready to move mode.

Kestrels? She checks to her rear.

The Kestrels are back and-- what is that? Tristan is on a chase. She must get to a higher vantage point in order to see 360 as she is holding the fort completely by herself for the moment.

Isolde is on the absolute highest point of the Cathedral, which is Gabriel's Wings. She is putting herself out as easy bait to draw the raptors to her. She is such an easy target up there how could they resist? They can't. She's drawn them onto herself. They begin to dive and strike her mercilessly.

The eyasses are poking at each other and playing, completely unaware that there is danger at the moment.

This is where PART TWO picks up way back in June 2007. Though in actuality the above portion is PART ONE B, so I've still gotta get to Part A, the actual beginning of the field notes.
I do hope it doesn't take another 6 months to get to it.

Donegal Browne

Nuthatches, a Redtail, and the Owl Who Wasn't

This White-breasted Nuthatch had this eye always closed three days ago as he went about his business. Between he and One Eye the squirrel, I'd begun to think I was running a feeding station for visually challenged wildlife. But Whitey's eye looks fine today and he's speeding around foraging for invertebrates and hatching those sunflower seeds into bark crevices looking healthy as ever.


Speaking of bark, could Whitey look anymore like bark? Note how his feather set makes him look as if he had crevices. And how his back takes on a perpendicular similar to that of a tree.

Now why is the coloring so different for a Red-breasted Nuthatch who forages in a similar manner to a White-breast? What is the evolutionary advantage to a rusty breast and a

bluish-gray back? There are several variations on this combination. Think of a Bluebird? How about a Tufted Titmouse?

I used to think that the black stripes over eyes in birds might have an anti-glare advantage similar to that sought by football players who apply black make-up under their eyes. That might have something to do with it but now I'm also leaning towards the if-I-have-black-eyes-in-a-black background-it's-much-harder-to-see-where-I'm-looking theory.

The lay of the three colors of feather on the back of his head is really quite beautiful.

This afternoon Marian Anderson who I went hawking with yesterday, called. She said she'd heard from her son who'd been deer hunting, who'd heard from a deer hunting friend, where an Owl had been roosting this morning. No ID made, just an Owl, but we were told where it had been in the woods, so maybe?

No. We had things we really needed to do, but then again...

Both of us having spent most of the day on the drudgery of check book balancing, government forms, and other kinds of indoor torture at my kitchen table, I looked at Marian and said, "Let's go look for the Owl".

We leap into the car, as fly outs don't wait. Hustle down country roads and then there is another of those shimmering white Red-tail bellies gleaming from an electrical pole. We almost don't stop as the sun is getting that orange glow. But we can't resist and pull over into the gravel on the side.

And once again the minute I pulled equipment from the car, our red tailed quarry flew across the road. The wind blew the tripod; the cold froze our fingers. The Red-tail glided along the tops of the cut corn stalks looking for prey, then up a bit and settled into a very brushy tree.

She waited, she triangulated, leaned forward and was off her perch yet again, with a swoop and then coming up empty, she flew to a third tree beyond an irrigation arm. Or we thought she did. It took us what seemed like forever to find her. She's quite clever at looking like a part of a tree.

Oh! The Owl! Back in the car and heading for Wade's Woods we go. It's 80 acres of trees sandwiched between a road and a bean field.

Let's see, Brandon said take the dirt road, it looks more like a rather wide dirt path. He has a jeep and we don't. Marian's car is wider, though it also has four wheel drive. She's takes the plunge onto the muddy path and down into the woods. We pretend not to hear the scratching of branches on her rosy red car enamel.

Then, he'd told Marian, go through the woods to the other side where the gate crosses the path, before the bean field. There's the gate. We jockey back and forth attempting to get the car headed back in the correct direction so later we don't have to turn it around and possibly run into a tree doing it in the dark.

Nothing so far.

Marian says, "Look. Hear it?" Thunk, tunk, tunk. It's a Downy Woodpecker above our heads giving the branch a work out.

The Owl! Right. Down to the gate, then retrace your steps 20 paces, then turn left into the woods and walk 10 paces through the brambles. Marian decides clogs might not have been the best choice, but she's game. We scan. Nothing.

Marian asks, "What level would it be sitting." I say, "That depends and besides we don't even know if we're looking for a Screech Owl in a cavity or a Great-horned on a branch. Most likely somebody on a branch." More scanning.

Then it occurs to me. "Ah, Marian."

She says, "Yes."

"Ah Marian, are guys still hunting at this time of day?

She says, "Sure." And then turns and looks at me. Our eyes meet.

Here we are standing in the brush in the middle of the woods where we know people have been hunting all day, without a speck of fluorescent orange on.

I'm wearing olive drab, navy blue and indigo with my rufous hair. Marian, is wearing gray and tawny yellow. Either of us could conceivably be taken for a deer if all that was seen by a hunter was movement and a blotch of warm color though the flora.

But we're cool. We keep scanning the trees for our Owl. Nothing. Nothing in fact but a few geese flying far, far overhead. Not a squirrel, not our Woodpecker, not a rustle or tweet or flutter. They all know there are hunters in the woods and have hunkered down for the duration of hunting season. Or so it seems. It's quiet. Excruciatingly quiet.

And what four legged, fleet, and being-hunted-at-the-moment-animal might we sound like when we tromp back to the road? Hmmm?

I have a real urge to whistle. I do, a few notes. Not much. Wouldn't want it to be too obvious that I'm attempting to not sound like a deer.

At that point Marian turns around and says to the air loudly, "I'm not a deer."

Soon we're both loudly proclaiming to the air, "I'm not a deer!"

But we're cool. We decide the Owl isn't happening and we tromp sedately back through the brambles to the road. There is conversation now. Conversation that might just be pitched a touch louder than necessary.

When we get to the road and before turning left to the car, I look right, past the gate, and the bean field and I remember. I remember that the first Oak in that row on the far side of the field holds the nest of the Wade's resident hawk, Christopher Red-tail. And that these woods are full of Jack-in-the-pulpit in another season. Even now through the snow melt there are deep lush spreads of exquisite jewel green moss on the tree roots, and little two inch ferns that peep through tiny drifts of snow that melt drop by drop into moist earth.

The quiet and the circle of seasons are complete. It doesn't matter a bit that there is no owl. At least not today, anyway. Because today has been good already.

Donegal Browne