At dawn the bluebirds come to drink at the birdbath. It’s zero degrees, and they are fluffed out into spheres, their heads barely sticking out of their neck feathers. They come in flocks of six or seven, and I wonder if they are siblings or just friends. In the gray light it’s hard to see the blue on their backs, but it becomes visible when the cat Telemann rushes at them from the other side of the glass and they fly away. Scaring off the bluebirds makes Telemann’s morning, and I don’t begrudge him the thrill. Fortunately, the birds are thirstier than they are frightened, and soon come back.
On the coldest days, the heater that is supposed to keep the birdbath from freezing doesn’t quite do the job, so I supplement it with boiling water from the teakettle. I hate to think of the birds and the squirrels and perhaps even the raccoon, should he or she decide to return, going thirsty in this frozen season. I am also concerned about the red fox whose tracks cover our yard and who the other day sat in the street in front of the house, barking forlornly. Is he getting enough squirrels to feed his pregnant wife?
But I mostly worry about the bluebirds. True, in winter they subsist on the fruits of sumac, poison ivy, and wild grape, but how much poison ivy, etc. can a bird find in the lawns of North America? To keep warm, birds also depend on the fat they accumulate in the fall by gorging on insects, but that bane of suburban ecology, the leaf blower, puts paid to that. Insect eggs, dormant butterflies, spiders, snails, and beetles are all blown to smithereens. Not only are there fewer of them in the fall, but in the spring, when the snow finally disappears and everyone is hungry, the birds can’t find overwintered insects to sustain them.
When did Americans become addicted to the sight of broad expanses of shorn green? Is it subconscious nostalgia for the flocks of sheep that kept the meadows of the British aristocracy looking tidy? Why does the spectacle of bare grass shivering in the cold warm the suburban heart? No such thing is seen in Nature. In Nature, or what’s left of it, grass spends the winter under a cozy duvet of leaves, which She thoughtfully provides in the fall. And what happens in the spring when the snow is gone and the leaves have rotted into the earth? Does the former meadow emerge as a desert, the grass having been suffocated by its leafy blanket? Not at all. If anything, it emerges greener and more vibrant, energized by the nutrients that the leaves leached into the soil.
If the District of Columbia, of all places, has banned leaf blowers, why can’t the rest of the country follow suit?
I started out by writing about bluebirds, and now I find myself in a full-blown leaf-blower rant. It doesn’t take much to trigger one of those in me. This is a season when the urge to rant—and not just about leaf blowers—is only a headline away. I need to guard against it. Rants are debilitating, using up precious stores of adrenaline better saved for other causes. And ranting doesn’t do any good. In the case of the bluebirds, I would do well to put aside my rage about leaf blowers and concentrate instead on keeping the bird bath full, making sure the heater is doing its job, and possibly distracting Telemann when he goes into stalking mode.
While I’m working on not ranting, it would be a good idea to simply observe the birds, to enjoy the striking effect of those complementaries—the orange breast, the bright blue back and wings—not to mention the tiny button eyes and the wide open beak as they tilt back their head to swallow. I could stand and watch them as the sun comes up, and feel gratitude for the warm house, the cup of tea, and the glass door that lets me feel like I’m outdoors and indoors at the same time.
And if that isn’t enough to distract me from ranting, I could always go out and buy the bluebirds some mealworms.
7 Responses
According to E.O. Wilson this desire for lawn is a visual aspect humans are hardwired to desire, dating from the earliest days of hominids on the African savanna: “to scan a parkland with scattered trees and copses.”
That explains it! Thank you! Love E.O. Wilson.
From my novel trilogy:
“…How on Earth did a bird smaller than a tennis ball stay alive through a northern winter? Buried in a stalled car out of gas, she’d freeze to death painfully in hours…”
Alicia Butcher Ehrhardt. Pride’s Children: NETHERWORLD
I’m always amazed that anything that small doesn’t freeze solid!
It is a kind of miracle.
Rant away, Lali! I’m right with you!
Maybe next fall we could organize a protest march. 🙂
I read copses as corpses. This is a rough time, as was then, I imagine.