Bobolink Babylon

The Petersham Commons Meadow

And here’s yet another difference between New England and the jungles of Panama: sunrise and sunset. In Panama the sun rises at 6am and sets at 6pm every day, year round, like clockwork. Here in the northern latitudes of Petersham it’s getting light around, oh, 4:30 a.m. The birds can hardly wait to get their act going. This morning a chipping sparrow jumped the gun and sang like a rock star right outside. It was 4 a.m. I threw a pillow at it and went back to sleep.

Bobolinks on a mission. Drawn in Petersham Commons Meadow.

I’ve mentioned this before but one of the special things about Petersham is their beautiful Town Commons. There’s a great haymeadow, a lilypond, a forest preserve and even a blueberry patch. All there for the people of Petersham to enjoy and use anytime. A local farmer cuts the hay, and if you live here you can pick the blueberries. There are pathways throughout for a pleasant stroll, even pathways mowed in the meadow. I went for a little walk here the other day and found a bonanza of bobolinks. Their wild, bubbly song (Bobolink song, from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology), is part of their flight display, and they like having a lot of bobolink company so they can put on the best show.

Female bobolink, in her plain brown wrapper.

Like a lot of guys, they are displaying to each other as much as they are to the females, flexing their muscles and flashing their colors. Every so often a plain tan female would fly up from the grass and a male would launch himself after her, floating on outstretched wings, turning slowly in the air to show off his beautiful black, white and gold pattern and bubbling away like a canary on steroids. Generally he’d land near another male and they’d strike hunky masculine poses at each other until the next flight departure.

From my seat on the ground I was enjoying the bobolink show, when I heard my lifer bluewinged warbler sing. This one’s high on my wanted list; if you’re a birder you’re a collector, too. Collectors need to complete the set, whatever it is. I left the bobolinks to their business and went to hunt the bluewing.

My lifer bluewinged warbler.

With a little judicious spishing, the warbler flew into the open, but just as I got my binoculars on him out of nowhere a big dog rushed up and began swirling around my legs in a friendly way, bumping into me and panting with joy. I heard its owner off in the distance calling “Abby- come back here!” which had about as much effect on the dog as reciting Shakespeare. I never looked away from my life bluewinged warbler (it was really gorgeous), never looked down, never saw the dog at all. Dear Abby finally gave up on me and moved on. When I FINALLY got my fill of looking at the bird, I turned around and saw the two disappearing around the bend, the dog’s long silky tail waving gently back and forth in the meadow grass and buttercups. My heart gave a sharp tug of regret.

Abby was a golden retriever.

Happy Birthday, Turkeys!

Just back from four days in Cambridge and I have all sorts of good things to share (museums, good restaurants, a hair fiasco, raiding an art supply store, a private dinner in the Harvard Museum of Natural History, etc.) but something came up to pre-empt the Big City Report: the turkey eggs hatched, and how nice I was there to see it happen.

The sound of chuck-chuck-chuck turned out to be mother turkey calling softly to her just-hatched chicks as she led them slowly through the meadow downhill to the woods. I had just enough time to catch a look at little brown-striped fuzzy balls as they tumbled over the bare ground, before they vanished into the tall grass. After that, all I could see was the hen turkey pushing through the tall grass like the Queen Mary steaming through high green seas. Grass stems twitched and waggled comically around her, indicating the chicks far below following their titanic mother’s ankles.

She didn’t walk straight into the woods. She took some time, letting the little ones catch up to her, keeping a bright black eye turned to the sky for the Broadwinged hawk nesting just back of the forest edge in case it might get wind of the exodus and drop by for a little turkey dinner. Every fifteen feet or so she’d sink down onto the ground, only her head visible above the grasses, gathering in her babies under her warm feathers (it was a cold drizzly day) for a rest. I imagine the meadow is a productive place for bugs; she was pecking at stems and once at a dandelion, scattering downy white fluff to the wind, encouraging the chicks to give it a try, too. Maybe they would accidentally hit a bug and learn to eat.

This saga went on for hours. Taking the chicks to the forest was a slow and careful process. My desk is next to the window and I kept one eye on the activity all morning, which was why I happened to hear a cackling and commotion, looked out just in time to see the hen run a few steps and lunge at something in the grass, hurl herself beak-first at something that squawked and rose flying from the grass: a ruffed grouse, tail spread out like a banded fan. It flew into the woods, but stayed near, I couldn’t imagine why- what would a grouse do with a clutch of turkey chicks?

I called to Mike to come up and look-it was his lifer ruffed grouse, as it happened-and while I tried to help him find the nearly invisible bird crouching in the maple leaves, he said “no, it’s out in the open”. A second bird had trotted to the opposite edge of the meadow and stood like a king in full sun, his regal cape of hackles around his shoulders rising and falling in agitation along with the small crest on his head. I grabbed a sketchbook and drew fast.

Right in the middle of the meadow below my window is a big granite rock about the size and shape of a sofa, with a divot in the top where I once curled up on a sunny afternoon and napped. The little king grouse hopped up on this rock for a few moments, striking another pose, then hopped down to the ground. Onto the rock hopped a ginger-colored sprig of a downy baby grouse.

The hen turkey was nowhere to be found, but mama grouse came walking up the hill followed by her brood (5 at least) and settled down onto the ground right below the window from where I had a front-row view, fluffing out her feathers. The chicks pushed themselves underneath. Occasionally one got squirted out like a melon seed and shoved its way back in. I’m fairly sure stuff like this doesn’t come along all that often, and you better seize the day when it does. I got a few sketches, and a little bit of footage, badly shot through a dirty window. I really should wash that window.

Mother grouse takes a dust bath.
Happy birthday, babies! Welcome to Harvard Forest!

Bird-Drawing Tip: Get Familiar

Familiar has a double-meaning in this case. Barry Van Dusen said a smart thing the other day, that if you wish to successfully draw a bird, draw that bird over and over until you assimilate its form. Stay within that bird family long enough to grok it. If you draw warblers and then switch over to herons you’ll have a bit of disconnect until you get the hang of long legs and long necks . Draw a lot of one family until that particular morphology makes some sense and becomes second nature to you, until you get the hang of the proportions and movements. A warbler is a bird, and so is a stork, and so is a mudhen but it will be less frustrating if you practice on one type at a time. Get comfortable with one bird family before you move on to another. For example: Monday=Raptor Day, Tuesday=Shorebird Day, Wednesday=Cassowary Day (or whatever shows up for you). Try it!

Bad I.D. alert: it’s a Parula warbler, folks. Jumped the gun a little, but now I have another life bird to look forward to!

Lately it’s been Warbler Day every day. That’s all about drawing with your head thrown back, looking straight up. Sore necks (yours) are part of the process. But worth it!

Exception to the Warbler Neck Rule: Ovenbirds are walkin’ warblers, found on the ground.