Tag Archives: red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus)

Among the missing

The words are forgotten, lost in a drive just three hours long, misplaced somewhere along 170 miles/270 kilometers of road.  Ancient names known for a city lifetime of decades, now the words hide behind months of rural living.  How familiar they were, how missing they have become.

A rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia) standing on a sunny pier (2008_12_27_003660)

My lips tremble when I try to speak them.  It is as if I ask them to verbalize an unfamiliar language, phrases borne of another land, yet I ask only that they remember the words that go with the mind’s pictures, the names once common but now rare.

A fox squirrel (a.k.a. eastern fox squirrel, stump-eared squirrel, raccoon squirrel or monkey-faced squirrel; Sciurus niger) lying atop a tree trunk (2009_02_02_005789)

Dropped into memory’s abyssal hat and plucked out one by one, I read from the mental slips of paper names of the absent, of the once ubiquitous, of those long called neighbors.  What alien text is this?  From what removed existence come these unremembered names?

A male house sparrow (Passer domesticus) perched on a limb (2009_02_21_010424)

When a few short weeks ago I journeyed back those three hours, back that long distance, unbidden the words came back to me, names once more as comfortable as the threadbare sweater worn each winter for its personal value rather than its fashion statement.  I knew each name that matched each face, knew the words too quickly lost.

A male red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) perched in a tree (2009_03_21_013137)

Yet back to my new world I had to return, and again the names hide among the missing, the faces lonely for the words that call them, the world outside my door barren for their absence yet abundant for their replacements.

An American coot (Fulica americana) swimming toward shore (2009_03_21_013166)

For they have indeed been replaced, the once familiar now forgotten, their collective presence full of new words, words like Texas coral snake, Inca dove, southern black widow, eastern bluebird, white-tailed deer, northern rough-winged swallow, flying squirrel, alligator, cougar, fish crow and black bear, along with many others.  How delightful these new words, how appealing the newfound familiarity of such names.

A male superb cicada (a.k.a. green harvestfly, green cicada or superb green cicada; Tibicen superba) clinging to the side of a tree (2009_07_06_026143)

Nevertheless I miss the old words, the old names, those now among the missing.  In another lifetime they shared my life, found each day right outside my door.  But now they only live in other places, not here, not with me, though near me, short drives away, or once more rediscovered at the end of that three hour journey, at the destination resting 170 miles/270 kilometers away.

Still, now I shall stutter the gibberish that goes with each mental picture, shall feel the unfamiliar words stumble upon my lips, shall pluck the words from memory’s deep hat with hope I shall remember those who remain among the missing.

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos:

  1. Rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia)
  2. Fox squirrel (a.k.a. eastern fox squirrel, stump-eared squirrel, raccoon squirrel or monkey-faced squirrel; Sciurus niger)
  3. Male house sparrow (Passer domesticus)
  4. Male red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus)
  5. American coot (Fulica americana)
  6. Male superb cicada (a.k.a. green harvestfly, green cicada or superb green cicada; Tibicen superba)

Being a third grader

Like many around my age then, in an untold year in the 1970s I found myself in third grade.  I already felt all grown up.  A big boy.  One of the ruffians of adulthood who could look down on those puny first and second graders and, most notably, the tiny tots in kindergarten.  And as third grade teachers are wont to do, our marvelous guide through those wee years took us headlong into the daunting task of learning about our local flora and fauna.  It was during that journey that I met my favorite bird.

A male red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) displaying and calling from atop a tree (2009_03_21_013144)

The red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus).  Oh, you expected cock-of-the-rock or bald eagle or some other manifestation of untold beauty or power?  Nope.  It boiled down to a simple, common blackbird that caught my eye and somehow forever ingrained itself into my psyche as the most fascinating, marvelous, beautiful bird ever imagined.  Maybe I just have simple tastes.

A male red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) perched on a thing branch (2010_03_06_050710)

It goes without saying that I have a great deal of interest in and adoration for black birds, such as grackles, blackbirds, cowbirds, and crows and ravens (corvids).  Most especially corvids.  But that’s a subject for a later time.

A female red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) perched on a reed (2009_03_08_012714)

As I sat in the bright classroom many years ago and colored my blackbird to make it look like the teacher’s example, the creature took on new life.  Something about it captured my imagination.  Something about it grabbed me and shook me and demanded that I look closer, that I look beyond the ubiquitous nature of these creatures and see what lay beyond.

A male red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) perched on a tree branch (2009_03_21_013196)

Like other black birds, red-winged blackbirds make up in personality what they lack in showy colors and over-the-top patterns.  Such life!  Such vitality!  And too often overlooked.

A female red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) standing atop a pier support column (2009_05_31_020950)

I don’t know precisely what it is about these birds that reaches inside me and holds me still.  I don’t know why hawks are my medicine animals while these simple blackbirds are the avians I enjoy most.  I don’t know why over the years, having seen so many other bird species, this one remains the most powerful inducer of smiles.

A male red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) watching me from a tree branch (2009_05_31_021197)

No, I don’t know any of those things.  And I don’t care.  All I know is that every time I see one—pretty much every day of the year—I become that third grader again, that awestruck boy captivated by a bird unequaled by any other.

[The unfortunate truth is that I take very few photos of red-winged blackbirds.  I spend more time sitting and watching them than I do photographing them.  I guess I’m selfish that way, always keeping the joy to myself rather than sharing it, which sounds a lot like a third grader I used to know.]

Some flew this path before

The crystal river flows south these days.  Winged ones swim from home and hearth toward winter vacations in warmer climes.  Some journey to the end of the river while others find respite along its shores.  I watch some dive in and leave, not to be seen again until next year; I watch others arrive from upstream who only stay until spring; and I see those who do not travel the winding path of the migration flow, but who instead live all year upon the banks we call home.

A male wood duck (Aix sponsa) in breeding plumage as he floats on still waters (2009_02_13_008550)

Unlike most birds, ducks molt twice per year: once in late summer to early autumn as they don their breeding plumage, then again in late spring to early summer as they dress in eclipse plumage.  This male wood duck (Aix sponsa) has just finished putting on his breeding best, and the result is what I consider to be the most beautiful duck plumage on the planet.  Though this species lives here all year, wood duck numbers grow dramatically in winter as northern populations move south.

Two juvenile ring-billed gulls (Larus delawarensis) arguing atop a light post (2009_02_13_008370)

Two juvenile ring-billed gulls (Larus delawarensis) disagree about how many birds can comfortably sit atop the light post.  Along with a variety of other gull and tern species, these birds spend winter here before returning to homes that don’t get as hot.  Only the interior least tern lives and breeds at White Rock Lake in summer, though many gull and tern species visit regularly; those numbers grow dramatically in winter.

An Eastern kingbird (Tyrannus tyrannus) perched in a tree (2009_04_16_015208)

Eastern kingbirds (Tyrannus tyrannus) live and breed here, but as most other flycatchers do, they must head south in winter lest they starve for lack of food.  Yet even as innumerable insectivores like these move away, others fill the void—for our weather limits but does not prohibit insects in winter.

A clay-colored sparrow (Spizella pallida) sitting in an evergreen tree (2009_05_04_017996)

Clay-colored sparrows (Spizella pallida) stop only to grab a meal and some rest, then they wade back into the airborne river and swim southward.  For them, deep South Texas is as far north as they will stay in winter.  This one nibbled on evergreens with some friends before taking flight.

A female barn swallow (Hirundo rustica) standing on the side of a bridge (2009_05_04_018028)

This female barn swallow (Hirundo rustica) no doubt will return in spring to mate and nest.  Perhaps she will return to the same bridge where I found her, a footbridge under which barn swallows brood and raise young every year.  In spring they will fill the air with song and aerobatics.  For now, however, they drift on the currents that move steadily away, always toward warmth, a mass of life following autumn’s progression toward the spring that lies just beyond the equator.

A male common grackle (Quiscalus quiscula) rustling his feathers (2009_05_04_018317)

This male common grackle (Quiscalus quiscula) stood on the pier and rustled his feathers as if shaking off the gloomy prospect of migration.  This species is a yearlong resident, though populations further north move here in winter to escape the colder weather.  By December at least two grackle species will fill the mornings with noise and antics, hundreds of them perching along overhead wires at nearly every road intersection.  And when they move to find food, they move en masse in a boisterous cloud that would embarrass whole flocks of European starlings.

A western kingbird (Tyrannus verticalis) perched on a branch (2009_05_17_019847)

Like their eastern cousins, western kingbirds (Tyrannus verticalis) thrive in the warm months that provide bountiful invertebrates for flycatchers.  But the buffet dwindles as cooler weather prevails, hence the kingbirds take flight and join the army of life heading south.  They will be gone only until spring when autumn filters into the southern hemisphere.  I already miss their voices.

A female red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) perched in reeds (2009_05_31_020987)

Not a day goes by when I can’t see a red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus).  This female watching me soon will be joined by more of her kind who arrive on the crystal river and come ashore to overwinter with friends.  In the coming months these birds will fill every reed bed around the lake, a cacophony of life filling the dormant winter browns with vigorous antics and delightful song.  Many faces will join hers, and walks around White Rock Lake will proffer scenes like this multiplied a thousandfold.

[more migration photos coming]

On a canvas of blue

Long night.  Very long, but really a long day.

I awoke yesterday morning around four.  I’m still up.

This is the new reality: our on-call shift for the weekend is now 24×7.

And it’s been a rough night.

Elvis, a large male muscovy duck (Cairina moschata), gliding by the shore on a bright morning (20071228_00485)

The thought of brighter times has kept me going, kept me from throwing the pager across the room and climbing into bed for some sleep.

Yet sleep might not come until tomorrow.

An American coot (Fulica americana) swimming toward shore in the weak light of dawn (20071228_00418)

So far I’ve been paged 107 times since midnight.

And the day is young.

A juvenile ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) standing atop a light post and watching me closely (20080114_01205)

I have no creativity, no worthwhile or witty content bubbling around in my head.

I barely remember my own name.

An American white pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) suffering from a majorly bad hair day swims away while screaming 'No pictures!' (20080223_02030)

Were it not for images like these still loitering about my laptop searching for the light of day, I might have to forgo all hope of seeing nature this weekend.

Aside from the nature outside my windows, I mean.

A male red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) perched atop a shrub singing his crazy head off (20080420_04224)

This kind of workload cannot continue, will not be tolerated.

I just can’t do it.

A juvenile red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) perched in a treetop surveying its kingdom (20080405_03024)

Perhaps I can grab a quick nap later today.

The sooner the better.

Elvis again, a large male muscovy duck (Cairina moschata), taking a refreshing bath near shore (20080614_06555)

This weekend sucks.

I might try to spin that into an artistic sentiment if I had the mental wherewithal.

But I don’t.

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos:

[1] Elvis, a large male muscovy duck (Cairina moschata), gliding by the shore on a bright morning

[2] An American coot (Fulica americana) swimming toward shore in the weak light of dawn

[3] A juvenile ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) standing atop a light post and watching me closely

[4] An American white pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) suffering from a majorly bad hair day swims away while screaming “No pictures!”

[5] A male red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) perched atop a shrub singing his crazy head off

[6] A juvenile red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) perched in a treetop surveying its kingdom

[7] Elvis again, a large male muscovy duck (Cairina moschata), taking a refreshing bath near shore