It’s mating season for white tailed deer and Mr. Eight-point, the buck on the scene with my local herd, had a challenger. Mr. Six-point came along prospecting for the last of the fallen crabapples. It’s hard to tell from these pictures, but in real life he was clearly the smaller of the two. Nevertheless, when the older buck showed up the younger stood his ground. They bowed their heads and engaged, as I watched from my window.
I would call it locking horns except they were deer, so they were locking antlers. They seemed intent on the process, until a car came down the street toward them. Then they broke off the tussle with one accord, watched until the car was past, and went right back to it.
There were no running starts, just a walking approach to each other, entanglement, and some pulling up and back that looked pretty indecisive. They engaged, disengaged, and engaged again. It was slow, even stately, and went on for ten or fifteen minutes, and then it was over.
Mr. Eight-point rejoined the does and fawns, who were off under my neighbor’s trees practicing their Christmas Sleigh Procession technique, totally ignoring the fight, or argument, or whatever it was, between the males. Mr. Six-point lingered under the crabapple tree for a few more minutes, saving face, then wandered off into the woods. How civilized, I thought, but considering how civilization is doing these days, the bucks were ahead.
By now the sun was setting, giving good evidence for the advantages to deer of being crepuscular. There’s a latecomer doe in this photo, but she’s hard to see. I didn’t know she was there when I took the photo – just a photo of a nice sunset – until she emerged from the skirts of the evergreens and trotted off to meet her kin. Startled, I checked the photo and yes, she was there all the time. My eyes were on the sky. You can only see what you are looking at.
My neighbor texted me the other day to tell me there were two great horned owls on the roof of her pool house. They were eyeing the pool vacuum with great interest, in case it climbed out of the pool and was revealed as dinner. Eventually they lifted their heads, the larger one outstared the smaller, and the smaller retreated to the far corner of the roof. Since female great horneds are larger than males we assumed this was a couple, and anthropomorphized a spat for them. But this was way past mating season for great horned owls, and on reflection this was more likely Momma and a growing chick. Was she teaching him to hunt? Trying to get him to fend for himself? Trying to get some time to herself for heaven’s sake? Still anthropomorphizing.
But birds, like people, do need to care for their young for a good chunk of their lives. We can relate. Not long after seeing the owls – though, sadly, after leaving my camera in the house – I walked out to my mailbox and found a baby robin hopping along the driveway near the crabapple tree. I could see where the nest was, though I couldn’t reach it. It looked like everyone else had fledged, but Junior had not quite made it. As he hopped he flapped his wings a bit, but didn’t get any lift.
I walked after him wondering what I should do, but the point was soon moot. He headed for this nice, thick stand of mountain mint, disappeared into it, and began to cheep. Good cover, I thought. It was a nice, steady cheep, like a beacon. Then I noticed that baby and I were being watched by a full-sized robin on the lawn. I took the mail back into the house and looked out the window to see big robin pulling a worm from the lawn, and carrying it into the cheeping mintpatch.
Next morning the cheeping came from a tall clump of Siberian Iris on the other side of my front door, and the parent robin waded in with another beakfull of worm. A successful night. There was cheeping and worm catering the next day too, from a little further back. A second successful night. The morning after that I didn’t hear him. Did baby bird learn to fly? Was he cheeping somewhere else? I hope those owls didn’t find him.
I’ve read that fewer than half of all baby robins survive, and yet robins are not endangered. They’re busy all summer, laying eggs, feeding babies, traipsing around after fledglings, repeating the process two or three times per summer just to survive. Free as a bird, we say, watching them fly and hearing them sing. In fact they are bundles of purpose. I’m glad to see them taking the occasional break – or so I think of it – in the local spa.
Of all the birds in my yard – and though I’m partial to Robins, for obvious reasons – my favorites to watch are the wrens. They’re tiny and adorable, they wag their tails, they hang around the house, and then they open their teensy beaks and this huge, rolling, gigantic wave of song comes out. How do they do that? When one of them sings outside a window, you’d swear he – or she – is inside the house. A group of them is called a “chime.”
The hanging gourd they nested in last year fell apart over the winter. Doug was willing to build a wren house for me, but spring came so early that the birds were back while he was still working on the eighty-seven other projects I’d asked him for. Well, probably not eighty-seven, but you get the idea. So I went down to the local bird-supply store, bought a ready made wren house, and hung it from the eaves. I really felt it was inferior goods, and wasn’t sure the wrens would go for it. They did.
Apparently I was standing too close while taking these pictures and aroused parental wren suspicions. Whoever it was on duty – hard to tell male from female wrens – watched very carefully for several minutes. I tried to look nonchalant, backing off a little, but when I looked up again the wren leaped out into the air and took off flying, straight to the fake nest of the ceramic birdhouse.
I was sorry the wren felt threatened, but pleased to know I had provided the fake nesting site. I hope it works well for them. And I did get a nice photo of flight.
The wrens are used to me puttering at my garden bench or on the deck, so I went back to doing that, hoping to be recertified as harmless. But I did watch, making sure the wrens came back. It didn’t take them long, so I guess I’m not so scary after all.
Robin Richstone 