It’s already 60 at 5:07 AM on this fine Summer Solstice Wednesday. Patchy clouds, calm skies—and glory be, a colorful sunrise is in the works! The birds aren’t celebrating in any special way, but the croaking of a Common Raven at 5:37, as it coasts down to the interstate exit ramp fields out of sight (could it be my junkyard friend?), reminds me of a display at last night’s annual Juniata Valley Audubon Society picnic:
Though it seems implausible, both ravens and crows are known to use various types of wire to weave structures into which they place softer material such as grasses for their broods. Respect!
Brood
Fern’s fern nest has two eggs already—one from Monday and one from Tuesday. Today, a male House Finch, possibly Fernando, lands on a wire nearby at 5:41 and sings, and not much later, a female shows up; they mate briefly and then sit a couple feet apart for a few minutes. The male leaves, she preens, she leaves.
At 6:21, a female House Finch returns and perches nearer to the nest. Four minutes later, she darts into the nest and settles down. Eventually, Fernando shows up (again?), landing at his customary spot on a high wire next to the eve, and sings his familiar song. At some point before seven, after he leaves, unsure if she is still in the nest, I touch the pot and she exits precipitously, calling, and lands on a wire. I go inside and she immediately returns. Later in the morning, I do the same and once she exits, I take a look inside the pot - sure enough, egg number three.
Seventy-Five Million Solstices Later…
I should remind the reader that no less of an authority than Wikipedia classifies birds as dinosaurs in an un-ironic, straightforward way. A gorgeous photo is captioned thus: “An adult male bee hummingbird, the smallest known and the smallest living dinosaur.” I do appreciate the fact that we are surrounded by neo-dinosaurs, particularly on the solstice. At 6:43, the reminder comes.
First, a mixed-species cloud erupts from woods along Bald Eagle Creek, sounding a dissonant chorus of protests. Then, a Cooper’s Hawk, flanked by some twenty smaller birds, appears from the trees and flaps over our lines of apartment buildings, clutching what I can only assume is a fledgling or nestling in its talons, trying to shake off its angry pursuers while not losing its breakfast: American Robins, various swallows, Common Grackles, and Chimney Swifts. Even though I would be willing to wager that the victim was not a young swift (how could it be?), they are by far the fastest and most effective of the mob, but how it all ends I have no idea. I can’t imagine the victim survives in this horror story.
I wonder, though, if velociraptors got pursued by mixed flocks of smaller dinosaurs. Did they feel fear?
One thing I do know: the Gray Catbird is so wrapped up in its own endlessly mimicry that it never stopped nor even missed a beat while all this was happening, despite being in a bush a few feet from the action.