Early this morning several Turkey Vultures sat in the brush just outside the fence that borders my backyard. I could see them through my bedroom window which looks out toward the river. They must have been attracted by the deathlike smell of the corpse flower that was blooming and sending its foul odor into the atmosphere. After an hour or so they left, perhaps finally realizing they had been fooled by the bizarre plant. Seeing their rich brown plumage and bright pink heads put a smile on my face. They are infrequent yard visitors, and it’s a treat to get this close of a look.
When the first Band-tailed pigeons of the spring arrived later in the morning, I hurried out with a large bucket of seed for them. Most flew off at my approach, but one stood on the platform feeder, about eye height to me and did not fly away. Garnet red eye, elegant white collar above an iridescent ruff, rich purply-slate-colored body, bright yellow bill and feet make this such a handsome creature. If Band-tailed Pigeons were a car, it would be a 1950’s two-tone Cadillac. I could have reached out and touched it, but was honestly a bit relieved when it did fly away as I lifted the bucket to dump its contents onto the platform. A bird that trusting of humans might be sick. Soon the feeder was covered with hungry pigeons.
Not much later the platform filled with voraciously hungry sparrows, White-Crowneds, White-throateds, Golden-crowneds. They’ve been around all winter, but there is more urgency in their feeding now as they prepare to travel great distances to their northern breeding grounds. Some of these could be migrants who started their journey south of here and are fueling up en route.
Later, in the early afternoon, the first Osprey of the season appeared, seen out the same window and circled around high over the river, staring down into the water in search of a meal, occasionally hovering as if about to dive. It stayed around for quite a while, its graceful wings and loud calls stirring decades of memories, yet as brand new as is each spring.
It seemed a meaningless coincidence that a friend recommended Amy Tan’s “Backyard Bird Chronicles” a couple months ago when I found myself sidelined by a hand and wrist injury that made using my camera painful. Other circumstances made my frequent visits to the river in search of birds temporarily impossible. But as I read Tan’s delightful and deceptively simple book I soon realized how ready I was for its teachings. Tan’s enjoyment of birds is contagiously engaging. She loves whatever appears in her yard and is fascinated by the activities of the mostly common birds. In fact, it seems her passion is for studying behavior and ecology, so it’s the day in, day out accounting that is necessary to satisfy her curiosity and that she shares so enthusiastically.
When I frequent the several spots I take my camera to and wait to see what happens, I like to think I have a similar appetite to Tan’s for observing whatever shows up, relishing appearances and happenings I recognize like old friends.
I wonder if we (we being all god’s creatures) are hard-wired to be intuitive phenologists, but we humans have bungled up that wiring with electric lights and forced-air furnaces and trucked-in food. Survival in the natural world depends on knowing the timings of things, so maybe those of us who are fascinated by watching birds (or any other wonder of nature: there are weather geeks and fish freaks as well as bird nerds) are rediscovering that necessary and driven ability to observe and study the world around us. Maybe we remember in some way what it meant to belong.
While out of commission from my usual meanderings to my “spots” I have been making an art form out of self-pity, whining about all I can’t do. But Tan’s book shook some sense into me and I picked up my camera (hand a bit unsteady, but willing) and positioned myself out in the yard to watch the action. Sparrows, Juncos, Jays, Hummingbirds, and at least a dozen more species were seen or heard. I remembered this place in my heart, as Thoreau said, as the heaven under our feet.
Free Range Photography 
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