No, the title isn’t a reference the Pink Floyd anthem, although I daresay these small spirits feel a bit like earth-bound misfits yet. With the dawn this morning came the cacophonous melody of our latest round of fledglings — magpies, four of them, if I’m not mistaken — out of the nest and spread across the upper branches of the red willow stand across from the pond.
Theirs is a song repeated throughout the day, less, it seems, about the perils and rewards of learning to fly than about the never-ending desire to be fed, and the whole adult magpie clan is roped into the exhausting process of caring for them. They are, perhaps, the hardest-working birds I’ve ever seen, and everyone above fledgling age has a task.
We have not had other fledglings within our line of sight yet this season, although I have no doubt that some are there, well hidden from more predatory species. The one shown above is from some six years ago now, a tiny being who would grow into a sizeable bird with wings of fire: a Bullock’s oriole, the male bright orange limned in black and white, the female a softer apricot shade with earthy edges to her wings. For two or three years, they found a home in one stand of aspens, each year building a tightly woven orb nest, with a shape much like a ball in a net. In the depths of winter, nest long since abandoned for warmer climes, these nests become rimed with frost and snow and ice, shimmering in the low cold light. They take on the look of an organic ornament for a holiday tree, a secondary use, perhaps.
Two weekends ago, the male oriole flitted past the front windows, stopping to sample the nectar in the hummingbird feeder, then settling momentarily just outside the window. I suspect that they are indeed here this year, but have elected to build their nest somewhere a little less accessible. Years of drought and a few late freezes have left the aspens and other deciduous trees a bit more bare this year, and perhaps they do not offer sufficient concealment for raising their young to adulthood.
Meanwhile, the invasive starlings have fledged already; so, too, the goldfinches and pine siskins who wintered with us for the first time in decades, perhaps whole generations. Some of the hummingbirds, small and unusually slender, are clearly not far beyond that point themselves, and there are young couples here too: flickers, meadowlarks, the occasional chokecherry bird, which is the local Indigenous term for the grosbeak. After what looked to be an early spring, the season wound up getting a late start this year, and now, on this first day of June — the day that, as a child, I always thought marked the first day of summer, and that indeed does mark the first day of meteorological summer — the mercury remains lower than normal, the warmth of recent days riven at midpoint by wind and storm.
At the moment, the skies are dark, the winds fierce, but the air holds precious little rain. Still, these are dangerous moments to be abroad for those just learning to fly. For all the fire in their tiny spirits will have to wait until they have sufficient wings to match it.
It’s only the first day. There’s plenty of time.
~ Aji
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