Mornings Are For the Birds

When our oldest, Drew, was in preschool, he was fascinated by birds. My dad, also an avid bird watcher, bought a field guide for him, and the two would sit side by side poring over the pages, studying chickadees, woodpeckers, finches and sparrows. They'd stand on the deck, pointing out and identifying each warbler, siskin and nuthatch that flew into view, and that field guide became more and more worn with every passing season.

Black-capped chickadee from Bird Songs

I'm thankful for the hobby that developed between Drew and Papa, in part because it encouraged me to tune in to the birds around me as well. Indeed, as I walk the wetlands near our home, it is the birds that most often catch my attention, especially in the morning.

The sunlight speaks, and its voice is a bird:

It glimmers half-guessed, half-seen, half-heard.

H.H. Kemp

I'm still working to identify many of them, but I have learned to pay close attention to coloring, song, and the shape of the tail so I can later look up those which are unfamiliar.

This morning as I approached the first lawn at the park, I saw what I assumed were three robins hopping around in search of worms. Upon closer inspection, I saw that one of them was actually a Northern Flicker. I always get just a little bit excited when I happen across a Flicker. I later spied a couple (I never see more than one or two together), and got close enough to sort of snap a picture. 

The ducks were dabbling as usual, diving for greens and preening their feathers. A couple of female mallards came out to sun themselves on a log while others wove a path among the reeds.

The crows were up to their usual rakish behavior. One lucky fellow snatched up a dragonfly for breakfast. I was both fascinated and repulsed by the shimmering wings protruding rudely from its beak.

It was breakfast time all around the pond, for I also saw a triumphant Scrub Jay holding a hazel nut in its beak. He dropped it on the ground and tap-tap-tapped at the shell until it cracked open, then flew into a nearby tree to enjoy the sweet meat. 

My final lap revealed a sleek black cat prowling through someone's back yard. I slowly approached, hoping to snap a picture (my Avery loves cats). He didn't seem to mind, so I came a bit closer, waiting to observe the morning habits of this feline. 

I expected to see perhaps the bathing of a paw or the stretching of the back. Instead I heard a sickening crunch of the teeth as it worked its mouth around something . . . well, something crunchy. It then occurred to me that mornings aren't just for the birds, but also for the cats who hunt them.