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Crows, Cardinals and Blue Jays
By Ursula B.G. Kilner, Salisbury
Recently I had my first experience watching a lame bird, a crow, in the parking lot of Geer Memorial. He (she?) was on foot; his left foot was obviously very tender and painful to walk on. He examined every pile of sand, leaves, a couple of pieces of paper, then turned and reexamined his "finds" once more before he took off. Obviously his wings were in good order and functioning very well. I had never thought about a bird's double means of mobility. How thrilling it would be to us ground-hugging mammals to be able to flap our arms and fly to a tree top—an ordinary event for the feathered ones.
Later I watched another—or maybe it was the same one, as crows tend to look alike—fly to the very top of a pine tree, which swayed violently in the breeze as the crow hung on, using its wings to keep balanced in the deep sways. No wonder the top of a mast on a sailing ship is called the "crow's nest." After viewing its world in all directions, the crow flew off into the other trees in a clutch of evergreens. Then another crow (or maybe it was the same one) flew out of the pine trees and went on his or her way.
This watching of birds at my leisure has been a luxury, as usually I have time for just a short glance at the bird feeders outside the kitchen windows, while I feed the dogs and cats or cook and clean.
I saw some robins early in January this year, but then, a few years back, when the pyracantha bush (a variety of shrub generally not hardy enough for the New England weather) still thrived and was covered with its orange berries, we saw a male robin all winter long. He apparently had a nourishing diet in the banquet of the pyracantha berries. I must say they did not look appetizing to me—but, then, I am not a robin—at least in this life.
I saw a male cardinal as I looked out the window at Geer, scarlet flashing through the trees. One winter we had three pairs of cardinals at the feeders. Cardinals are almost always in pairs—the male more brightly plumaged then the female, who (here we go again, "humanizing" birds and not saying "which") has a rusty color; both male and female cardinals have strikingly black beaks.
I have often thought that if we had as many cardinals as we have blue jays (and as few jays as cardinals), we would no doubt treasure the stunning blue of jays a great deal more. They too are beautiful birds and wonderful in their warnings of danger; blue jays make the first alarm call when a hawk comes in the area of the feeders, and the birds all take cover quickly. Not long ago we had an injured blue jay on one of our paths. I have a small box with a soft "nest" of cloth in the bottom for such tired casualties; I went to bring in the box for the injured jay—but, by the time I returned, he or she (they look alike) had died. That made me sad.
The birds are there "for the looking." We should all realize what joys of nature dwell and fly right outside our windows, or maybe we might take a stroll around our homes, along the road, or even on a path into the nearest woods. Hey, it's free for the looking!
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