Special Guest Article: And Then There Were Two

One of the most rewarding aspects of backyard bird-watching and feeding is that you get to know some of the birds as individuals. You recognize a tattered feather, a unique white collar on a bird that should be black, a particular ranking in the flock hierarchy. Gradually, and despite yourself, you develop favorites. Favorite individuals, but also favorite species. My heart always goes out to those that work the hardest to survive. I love the little chickadees, but they are native to our New England climate and brave the snow and sub-freezing temperatures with nonchalance. I rarely fear for their safety. The Carolina wren is a pioneer, gradually and courageously working its way northward and eking out a hard living in a hostile winter world. When the winter is harsh, its range contracts southward, for many do not live to see the spring. So I make a special effort to feed and nurture the Carolina wrens, providing seed, suet mixtures and plump mealworms in a sheltered window feeder, for I love their perky mien and cheery call. After each storm I watch for them, and smile with affection and relief when they appear.

Yesterday there were three Carolina wrens at my feeder, today there are only two.

Looking out my living room window, just a little while ago, I saw the third wren dead on the snow-covered patio. A window-strike, perhaps, while fleeing the red-shouldered hawk that I spied, with a thrill, sitting on the big feeder this morning, looking puffed up and angry (breakfast got away?) ... or maybe this was the weakling wren that simply succumbed, the one that for the past few days had been picked on and pecked at by his more fortunate rival. Who now, as I write, is billing and nuzzling at the gorp dish with his lady love.

No matter that they're wild; to feed them is to love them, especially when you know them so well.

There were three and I loved them all, maybe the poor underbird even more than the other two; so it was with a lump in my throat that I waded through the snow, collected the cold little corpse and carried it to the end of the yard, where I left it as an offering for the crows. They wasted no time. Not ten minutes later I saw the scout arrive and heard him calling, "Tasty tidbit here!"

It's gray and still and quiet out there now. More snow coming, to mute these little dramas of our back yards.

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