Essays

Wild On The Prairie: Elemental Forces

Just what do birds do when the snow is falling?
January 17, 2007

Before a blue norther, the birds go nuts, bathing and feeding incessantly in vocal groups, twittering and flittering. Feeders in a home landscape will empty in minutes. After bathing, every feather is lifted, separated, and cleaned. Their survival depends on the insulation provided by the down feathers deployed in maximum fluff. The birds gorge, cramming every gullet cranny to painful distension. When the wind begins to switch, the birds find the deepest thickets and densest trees where the sharpest north winds can not reach.

A person that ventures out into swirling snow might not see one bird in a mile’s walk. Sometimes, however, the adventuresome birder might be rewarded. With snow creating poor visibility and muffling sound, opportunities for amazingly close observations occur. A person walking into the north wind tilts their head down at an angle away from the wind. One eye is on the trail ahead, but the other eye is in peripheral vision mode, looking for an excuse to face away from the wind.

A few years ago at the Sibley Nature Center a group of five children begged to be taken outside in the snow, and after their adult leaders gave their permission, out we went. “Let’s find the holes in the wind,” I suggested. After explaining that wind currents curl like water currents, creating eddies and whirlpools (whirlwinds) the kids welcomed the challenge to find the invisible.

For the first 100 yards we saw nothing. The wind was constant, from one direction. “We are out in the open, far from a tree or building or a low place – let’s head to the grove of trees at the pond. As we descended the gentle slope into the playa, one of the children remarked that the wind seemed to be above him, and not hitting him so hard. We gathered a handful of snow and flung it into the air. Above their heads the snow swirled with the wind. At their waists, the snow just fell.

We eased slowly to the grove of willows at the east end of the playa. Twenty feet from the trees we tested the wind again. In one place the wind carried the snow in a clockwise swirl as it descended. In another, the snow swirled counter-clockwise. In between the two eddies, the snow just fell.

I held my finger to my lips. “Let’s walk one step at a time to the trees. After every step, take a look.” When we were but five feet from the trees, we found our first living creatures. A Pyrrhuloxia (some people call them Desert Cardinals for they are grey with a red vest) jumped from the base of nearest tree, flapped once, and dove into a multi-trunked mesquite where a packrat had built a large stickpile nest.

“Don’t move. Just watch. Let him find safety again.” We did not have to wait but twenty seconds. After a series of quick looks in every direction, the dapper top-knotted gentleman dropped to one of the packrat’s entry tunnels into the stickpile. He peered into the tunnel, twisting his head back to examine it closely. Then he turned around and took an awkward hop backwards, so his tail stuck into the entryhole.

I told the kids to take three slow steps backwards, so we could leave him in peace. We headed to the Russian olives at the Ted Jones Memorial Bench, but movement at water’s edge caused me to tell the kids to freeze. One kid joked that he was frozen already – “Don’t move. That is what I mean,” I growled, glaring at him. He smirked.

Something was at the edge. “ There is something large behind the bigger tree. Bend your body, don’t move your feet, and see if you can see it.” “Oh, my, oh – it is a hawk – a red-tailed hawk. Take a tiny step, and only move until you can see it, then stay frozen.” We watched as the hawk stepped from the frozen ground onto ice and immediately slipped. The hawk spread one wing to counterbalance his weight, then folded it back before pecking at the ice. It shook itself after the headbanging, fluffed out his feathers and slid the other foot forward slowly., then the other, and slowly made his way to open water. He fell through the crust of ice into water four inches deep and gave a clattering cry of frustration.

The hawk jumped to the side, as if hoping to land on solid footing again, but when he landed he skidded, feet out in front of him, and propped on his tail. As he stopped sliding, he fell on his side and immediately rolled onto his belly. Again he clattered in frustration and caught sight of us. He spread his wings to fly, and fell flat on his face again. He lay glaring at us, but we did not move. Instead of succumbing to panic, he methodically brought his feet under him again, and slowly stood straight.

For a long second he eyed us. At that moment a marsh wren appeared in the cattails above him. It began its tail twitching bouncing side to side expression of agitation, fussing with a zzzt-zzzt sound. The hawk turned his head as the wren bounced closer to hang on a sedge stalk. The hawk gave voice to a high piercing kak-kak-kak, and the wren flitted back into the cattails. A mallard duck quacked in the water beyond, and took off, flying up over the cattails, directly at the sound (and us). A sora rail whinnied at the whir of his wings. As the duck cleared the cattails and spotted us, he banked and made a quick circuit of the half-acre pond and marsh.

It appeared he considered landing again, for he extended his orange feet and cupped his wings to start his landing, but decided against it, peeling off at an angle, headed for the nearest golf-course pond. The hawk launched off straight over our heads. As he passed by, he gave the famous red-tail scream, used in so many movies. With the disappearance of the birds, the landscape became a frozen tableau again, with only five small humans and one large human moving, moving this time in the direction of a warm building.