Some Bird Observations
Some Observations About Observations
In her book Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer shares the story of Nanabozho, the “First Man” of Anishinaabe tradition. Once Nanabozho arrives on earth, he is told by the Creator Spirit to travel to the north, south, east, and west. Like the biblical Adam, Nanabozho is also told to name the animals.
In Genesis 2, we are told that the animals were “brought before Adam,” and he named them. In the Nanabozho story, more detail is given as to how the animals were named.
As he continued exploring the land, Nanabozho was given a new responsibility: to learn the names of all the beings. He watched them carefully to see how they lived and spoke with them to learn what gifts they carried in order to discern their true names (Kimmerer 208).
Kimmerer, a trained botanist and professor, then considers what it might be like to observe nature with a “Nanabozho mind”:
Today, far from my neighbors in Maple Nation, I see some species I recognize and many I do not, so I walk as Original Man may have done, seeing them for the first time. I try to turn off my science mind and name them with a Nanabozho mind. I’ve noticed that once some folks attach a scientific label to a being, they stop exploring who it is. But with newly created names I keep looking even closer, to see if I’ve gotten it right. And so today it is not Picea sitchensis but strong arms covered in moss. Branch like a wing instead of Thuja plicata (208).
Annie Proulx highlights the importance of “repetitive observation” in order to understand the impacts of a changing climate over time. “Our species is not adept at seeing slow and subtle change. … We just don’t get the slow metamorphoses of the natural world because we have unplugged ourselves from it” (8–9). That is, our attention is so fixed on the problems of “civilization” apart from nature that we fail to observe much about our natural environment (unless perhaps it is our profession).
This year, the daffodils bloomed on February 28—I don’t ever remember them blooming this early. But this is the first year I’ve decided to notice. To observe change like this takes discipline over years.
To observe gradual change takes years of repetitive passage through specific regions week after week, season after season, noting sprout, bloom and decay, observing the local fauna, absorbing the rise and fall of waters, looking carefully—the way all early humans lived” (Proulx 9).
Proulx goes on to describe the observations made by Henry David Thoreau at Walden Pond in Massachusetts. He “tramped for miles every spring noting in his bad handwriting the dates when wild plant species flowered. His records for the years 1852–1856 were extensive” (9). Years after Thoreau died in 1862, another Concord resident, Alfred Winslow Hosmer, picked up the task from 1888–1902. After the year 2000, “the biologist Richard B. Primack and Abe Miller-Rushing followed the same observation trails for the Thoreau-Hosmer list’s forty-three most common plants. They used the comparative data as hard evidence for a warming climate” (10).
Only by comparing records taken at widely spaced intervals—Thoreau’s records in the 1850s and our own observations made 160 years later—could I see the alteration in flowering times (Richard B. Primack, quoted in Proux 10).
Our attention is so caught up with the social and economic issues of our world that it can be easy to assume that’s all there is. “Saving the environment” becomes another thing on our cultural to-do list, another activity to feel guilty about not doing well enough, another product to market, another “advertisement” (in the etymologically prior sense of “warning”) to ignore.
“Observant people still exist,” says Proulx. We need more observant people, and not just to take note of climate change. We can, as Nanabozho did, carefully observe how plants and animals live in order to learn what gifts they have to offer.
So often, we rely on “experts” to tell us how the natural world works, and yet what we learn from them is either ignored, forgotten, or only remembered in fun tidbit form. What if we trusted our own observational skills, watching plants and animals with an openness to surprise?
“Once some folks attach a scientific label to a being, they stop exploring who it is,” says Kimmerer. I have a bird identification book I run to whenever I see an unfamiliar bird. Once I identify it, I check it off the list, satisfied at having “seen” it. But Kimmerer suggests a different approach. Come up with your own name, based on observation, and test your name to see if you’ve gotten it right.
There are many animals or plants I see and think, “Pest, weed, yucky.” But observation—along with occasional book learning—can help me understand the gifts each creature brings to its environment. I used to hate craneflies until I learned that they eat mosquitos. Once on a backpacking trip, I was swarmed by flies of varying sizes. I was in a pretty bad mood until I could lock myself away in the tent. Only then, when I had paused to observe the bugs did I realize the larger flies were eating the smaller ones. I started to see them as “protectors” rather than agitators.
By understanding the role a plant or animal plays in its environment, and by understanding the relationships between various plants and animals, we can better honor and manage the land we live on. It doesn’t take much to watch birds flying around. And if you perceive them, not as generic “bird,” but as a unique individual of a particular species, making its own instinctual decisions in this moment, you might be surprised at what you learn from them.
Below are some observations I’ve made about birds. Some observations are purely descriptive. For others, I’ve drawn some hypotheses about bird behavior. And based on some, I’ve made analogies to human behavior and spirituality. I hope these inspire you to make your own observations of an animal or plant near you.
Pigeon
Pigeons are considered gross. As Danusha Laméris writes in her poem, “Pigeons”:
Because they crowd the corner
of every city street,
because they are the color
of sullied steel,
because they scavenge,
eating every last crust,
we do not favor them.
Signs and rooftops and railings are covered in spikes to prevent pigeons from roosting there. Everywhere are signs, “Don’t feed the pigeons.” This may be wisdom. The word pigeon has the word “pig” in it. Pig eons, like endless days of swine.
But despite being “the color of sullied steel,” there is a beauty to pigeons. The pigeons in Seattle are mostly gray, with teal and purple feathers. This week, as I was waiting at a stoplight in Ballard, I saw two pigeons on the sidewalk at the bus stop. One was following the other. I assume, based on the different coloration, that the duller leading pigeon was female and the purplier pigeon following her was male. The female was walking in a zig-zag pattern while the male was chasing her, puffing out his purple chest repeatedly. I assume, it being spring, and because I’ve seen dozens of nature shows, that this is a courtship ritual. I’m not 100% certain, and I could probably look it up. But I’ll let this observation be enough for now. What I noticed brought me delight on my morning commute.
My name for the pigeon: Crowd-Hidden Beauty
Northern Flicker
My first, secondhand, experience of a northern flicker was at my first MFA residency on Whidbey Island. Poets tend to be birders, at least in my experience. (One recent MFA student playfully mocked this fact during an evening of student readings, and defiantly read his own poem about fish instead.)
One of the poets asked the poetry mentor about a bird they’d seen but couldn’t identify. After days of trying to figure it out, they eventually determined it was a northern flicker.
In the spring after our firstborn son, Emerson, died, we were visited by a northern flicker as well. (This was before I began the MFA, so I suppose this instance is technically my first encounter with the bird.) I was sitting in the living room, minding my own business, when a loud buzzing rattle sounded from the fireplace. It lasted about two seconds then stopped. Maybe twenty seconds later, it sounded again. This pattern kept going for ten-plus minutes. Every few days, the experience would happen again. I assumed it was some kind of woodpecker (yup), but didn’t try to investigate further. Years later, I determined it was a northern flicker. Apparently, they drill into wood to attract a mate in the spring. But they’ve discovered, living in urban areas, that metal chimneys create a much louder sound, and therefore are more effective in finding a mate.
Since then I’ve observed other behaviors of this well-dressed, bowtie bird. It eats worms from the ground, methodically plunging its beak into the soil, moving a fraction of an inch forward each time. Every two or three plunges, it pauses, I assume to watch for predators. One flicker recently walked the whole length of the front yard plunging and pausing, and as far as I could tell, it found at least two worms.
It has a couple calls that I’ve only recently realized belonged to it. One is a high-pitched chirp that almost sounds like a seagull. It pings out one note every ten seconds or so. Another call—made on its own, or right after drilling into a chimney—is a rapidfire kind of chitter, almost like a high-pitched monkey.
Once, Allison and I saw two flickers at the top of a telephone pole doing some sort of dance together. Both their heads pointed up toward the sky. They bobbed left and right several times (they moved opposite one another so that if one moved right, the other went left) before suddenly freezing in position. Then they’d bob again. This went on for over fifteen minutes. Mating ritual? Or just a dance for fun?
My name for the northern flicker: Bowtie Dancer or Chimney-Driller
Robin
A robin’s morning and evening chirps are my earliest memory of birdsong. Every spring, summer, and early fall, I am happy to hear them singing. It reminds me of every other time I’ve heard them singing and fills me with a sense of continuity, as if my life is a swim between islands of robin-song.
When robins land—almost always in groups—to catch worms in the yard after a rain, they seem robotic to me. They halt, perfectly still, then just one of their joints jerks to a new frozen position. They listen patiently. Then they hammer their head down and come up quick with a worm.
One day last fall, after some rain, a dozen robins were hopping around the yard. One robin struggled to pull a big, fat worm from the ground. Another robin came over, as if to help (to “help,” I’m sure). The first robin flapped its wings at the second, boxed it out, then yoinked the worm up in its beak and flew to the nearby lilac tree to enjoy its meal. No help required, thank you very much.
My name for the robin: Wormfinder.
Crow
While driving, I was stopped at an intersection. A crow placed a peanut in the right-turn-only lane. It did not place it in the middle of the road, but in the subtle groove made over time by the tires of vehicles. The crow knew exactly where to place the peanut so that it would crack open when a car drove over it.
Once I was walking the trails at Boeing Creek Park in Shoreline. There was a tree leaning over a cliff, one of its mossy branches held far above the creek below. A crow landed on that branch and, with its beak, placed something on the moss. Then the crow found a nearby leaf and placed it over the object (maybe food?). It hopped away, looking at its hidden treasure, then hopped back to adjust the leaf. Apparently, it needed the covering to be just right.
There’s a crow (maybe it’s more than one) who watches the squirrel in our yard as it buries nuts. The squirrel buries one in the dirt. Then it scurries away. A few minutes later, the crow glides down from the fence or rooftop, digs up the nut, and takes it to the birdbath to soften it up in the water. Work smarter, not harder, right?
During a cold spell in December, we were on a family walk around the neighborhood. It was around 20 degrees. The crows were huddled around chimneys to keep warm.
My name for the crow: Clever Bird
Black-Capped Chickadee
When we moved into our house seven years ago, the first bird we noticed, besides crows, were black-capped chickadees. I’d never really noticed them before. I knew the name “chickadee” but couldn’t put a face to it.
Five days after moving in, Emerson died unexpectedly. Sometimes a tragic, traumatic event can heighten your attention to details. I started noticing the birds, particularly the small birds, the juncos and chickadees. They reminded me of Emerson, and when they’d come to the yard, it felt like my firstborn was visiting. Juncos came every day, and sometimes they looked like dead leaves fluttering along the ground. Chickadees were rarer, and so their visits were more treasured.
We bought birdfeeders so we would see the birds more often. In 2021, we were roaming about the house, doing whatever, when we heard a tapping at the window. We followed the sound to our bedroom, and saw a chickadee standing outside on the windowsill, tapping its beak against the glass. Then it flew away to a tree by the backyard birdfeeder. Half a minute later, it flew over again and tapped on the glass. We put our faces right up against the window, and it didn’t shy away. It kept tapping. This continued over the course of a few hours.
We thought perhaps it was confused by its reflection, but why would it keep coming back? Perhaps it thought the reflection was a rival, but wouldn’t repeated glass-tapping have proven this wasn’t another bird? We googled it. Some people said chickadees have learned that the house-creatures supply the birdfeeder, so when it is running low, they send a message that it’s time for a refill. I don’t know how this kind of knowledge could be proven. We refilled the birdfeeder the next day and the chickadee stopped visiting our window. Maybe there’s a link.
I like to think it was Emerson paying us a visit. Or a messenger from Emerson. This may not be “scientific” thinking; it may be overly “sentimental.” But sometimes the point isn’t whether something is true or factual, but what effect it creates between creatures. My curiosity, peace, gentleness, patience, and even love were activated in this encounter. Isn’t that a good thing?
My name for the chickadee: Quick-Flitting Messenger
Sometimes it feels like the world’s problems can be solved if we just accumulate enough knowledge. Climate change can be “solved” by the next scientific advance in green technology. Prejudice can be overcome by reading some books. Economic disparity can be eliminated once the perfect system can be formulated. Faith can be more secure with enough “right” theology. “If this person I disagree with would just hear this fact, just read this book, just listen to this expert, they would change their mind.” I’m a sucker for knowledge. If I know enough things, the world will make more sense, and then I can change or control things so that it’s better for everyone (or at least everyone in my sphere of influence).
But “knowledge puffs up” (1 Corinthians 8:1). Knowledge and power without love are “nothing” (1 Corinthians 13:2). Learning about the wonders of creation is fascinating, fun, faithful to the curiosity God has implanted within us. But the increase of love between people and between humans and the rest of creation is more important.
Connecting with plants and animals may seem like something our modern civilization has “grown out of,” with our so-called superior worldview. But when I give my attention to this bird on this day, the circumference of my love widens. And the increase of love in me, no matter how small, how insignificant, means an increase of love in the world.
“Behold the birds of the air,” says Jesus (Matthew 6:26). There is much that can be learned by observation. And observation, if we open ourselves to it, if we open ourselves to what God might teach us through it, can lead to spiritual understanding and growth.