Distelfinks and Dinosaurs

Author: Sally White

Illustrations: Jan Ratcliffe

Date: May 2013

Sparrows don’t quite do it for me: I look at them and I clearly see birds, normal birds, hopping on the ground looking for seed or flying around. But distelfinks are different. Distelfink, literally “thistle finch,” is a handy word still used by the Pennsylvania Dutch for a group of birds that reminded them of the colorful finches of their homeland. It’s both memorable and descriptive, as distelfinks of all species adore thistles—in season, of course. Perhaps you’ve encountered flocks of pine siskins and lesser goldfinches raiding roadside thistle patches in fall, and fluttering wildly away as each car passes. For me, it’s less trouble to say “distelfink” than to list all our yellow finches—pine siskins and American goldfinches and lesser goldfinches—and our pinkish-red finches—purple, house, and Cassin’s finches. Other birds never act like dinosaurs. Distelfinks do, at least at my house.

Scientists who study fossils have, of late, been trying to tell us birds are actually dinosaurs: watching distelfinks makes me a believer. Ounce for ounce, they must be among the most aggressive dinosaurs left alive. This is made apparent by their habit of congregating in mixed flocks for fall and winter feeding. After all, most of us get a little irritable in crowds. Pine siskins are the worst. As they fight for space at the thistle feeder in our yard, they hiss and spit at each other, flashing the yellow under their wings and adopting threatening postures. Sometimes I think firebreathing dragons are the true missing link between birds and other dinosaurs, the extinct ones.

All this aggression is presumably brought about by the survival value of simply getting enough food. Small birds come together in numbers because of the advantages flocking offers: better protection and a warning system for predators. Flocking also means more eyes on the lookout for good food sources, but you still have to get your share while dozens of your fellows try to get theirs. Picture the noon crowd at your local food court.

Fortunately, we have a lot of thistle patches around. Therein arises one of those conundrums of conservation. Plant enthusiasts are trying to eliminate exotic thistles; bird enthusiasts enjoy thistle patches for the many birds they support. Although we have a variety of native thistles, most don’t thrive quite the way foreign invaders like musk and Canada thistle do. Have we improved habitat for distelfinks by allowing alien thistles to spread unchecked these last hundred years? Yes and no. Native birds do have alternatives: pine siskins are aptly named because they pick at pine cones as successfully as at thistles; American goldfinches are equally happy eating sunflower or dandelion seeds. Although their numbers may have increased with new food supplies, I don’t think removing exotic thistles will drive distelfinks toward extinction.

Distelfinks and Dinosaurs, by Sally L. White, Illustration by Jan Ratcliffe (drawing of distelfinks)Flocking, or perhaps we’d better call it herding, probably also provided similar advantages to some dinosaur species. Communal dinosaur nesting grounds in Montana remind us of today’s seabird colonies, substituting groups of 25-foot-long duckbills who return to the same place year after year to nest together and care for their young. A herd of these Maiasaura migrating from nesting areas to feeding grounds might foreshadow the long migrations our flying dinosaurs make today.

I imagine the pine siskins as coelurosaurs: scrappy, ostrich-like dinosaurs who may have hunted in groups. Solitary eagles are more reminiscent of lone hunters like Tyrannosaurus rex. A small peregrine falcon may recall Velociraptor; both have a strike that is quick and deadly.

Paleontologists have given us a lot to think about with this bird connection. Just think—now you can study dinosaurs in your own backyard! Much of our understanding of the past must come from our knowledge of the present, because Nature still works much as it did during the Cretaceous Period. Even scientists use their imagination, and often reason from analogy as well as from hard facts. As the famous geologist James Hutton once put it: The present is the key to the past. So if you want to see dinosaurs at home, and speculate on Earth’s older inhabitants, you’re in good company. I should warn you, however, that the bird specialists have not yet fully accepted this new, closer link between dinosaurs and birds.

Because birds are ubiquitous and seem to be a harmless background presence, we don’t consciously notice how thoroughly they’ve occupied “our” world. When you think about it, they’re everywhere. In and amongst our supposedly dominant culture, birds as a group continue to thrive and still live a variety of lifestyles. They are, however, showing the effects of our presence and the pressures we put on them; too many are disappearing. Those earlier dinosaurs, in their heyday, must have similarly dominated their environment, and eventually succumbed, perhaps due to some similar pressure. May the distelfinks last as long.

Copyright © 2013 Sally L. White

When Winter Comes: Strategies for Survival

Author: Sally White

Illustrations: Jan Ratcliffe

Date: February 2013

Our world is surprisingly full of animals, even in our heavily developed areas. How does nature ensure that fullness? By paying a large price: excess. This annual tax often comes due in winter. Every student of nature stumbles upon and must come to terms with the necessity for such excess. Charles Darwin once remarked upon the “clumsy, wasteful, blundering, low and horribly cruel works of nature.” Henry David Thoreau sounded a somewhat more optimistic note: “I love to see that Nature is so rife with life that myriads can be afforded to be sacrificed and suffered to prey upon one another.” Whatever we may think of this system, it works.

In the plant world, we find it useful to describe life cycles by their duration. For example, we understand some plants to be annuals that go from seed to seed in a single season, investing all their energy in the next generation. Others are perennials that take several seasons (or decades) to grow, reproduce, and die. The concept is equally useful when applied to animals. Some animals, especially among the insects, could be considered annuals, going from egg to egg in a single season or year. Even those who could live for years用otential perennials熔ften don’t. Winter is one of the reasons for shorter lifespans.

Many insects invest any hopes they have for the future in an egg or pupa that is dormant during the cold months; most butterflies use this approach. Others, for example hornets, go from the abundance of a large “city”葉he paper nest with its thousands of inhabitants葉o a few adult queens, stocked with sperm for the following spring. At least one must make it through winter to begin again. On the average, one does. Ladybird beetles also go through winter as adults, coming together by the thousands each fall to hide in crevices and other sheltered places on mountaintops. For animals large and small, winter success is often a matter of survival of the fattest. Stocking up enough reserve energy to get through the winter is especially important to those who will not look for food again until spring: bears, snakes and lizards, frogs and toads, hibernating ground squirrels, and many more. They sleep, gambling that the fat they’ve stored will last longer than the winter ahead.

Others remain active, using hidden food caches as pine squirrels and scrub jays do, or searching for food all winter as deer and elk do. Stocking up is still important, though. The more energy they’ve been able to store internally during summer’s abundance, the better their chances of finding enough external food sources to get by. Among birds, many escape the rigors of winter by migrating, but there is no escaping the annual tax, and no way the world can hold all the young produced each year. In 1991, volunteers for Hawkwatch International counted a thousand Sharp-shinned hawks migrating over one mountain ridge in Utah; almost 50% were immature birds making their first trip south. Only about 30% of those young birds will live to make the return trip. By our standards, this reflects an oppressive tax indeed; by nature’s standards, it is a necessary one.

When Winter Comes: Strategies for Survival. Illustration by Jan Ratcliffe (drawing of a bird)Our smallest winter-resident bird, the chickadee, lives all winter on a nutritional and energetic edge. In ten years, Aldo Leopold banded 97 chickadees on his Sand County farm. Only one survived five winters; 67 didn’t make it past their first. But survival isn’t just a lottery; much can depend on the decisions the animals themselves make. Read the chapter on chickadees that ends his Sand County Almanac擁t’s one of his best.

“It seems likely that weather is the only killer so devoid of both humor and dimension as to kill a chickadee….To the chickadee, winter wind is the boundary of the habitable world….Books on nature seldom mention wind; they are written behind stoves.” 輸ldo Leopold

It’s no wonder, then, that animals do whatever they can to reduce the demands winter places on them, to increase their chances of being here come spring. Deer invade your yard to eat fall apples or early spring tulips; mice and squirrels, along with wasps and spiders, invade your house in search of warm spots where their limited stored energy will not be drained by cold. It’s going to be a tough time to be outdoors, and somehow the animals know it. That wasp wedged under the bark in your woodpile may be the queen of a new city; the spider in the corner of your porch could found a new dynasty; the mouse in your basement is the matriarch of next summer’s owl food. All are just doing the job nature assigned them at a time when she’s not about to make that job easy.

Copyright © 2013 Sally L. White

Life After Life

Hidden within our soils are a host of organisms engaged in decomposition, that deconstruction project without which life on Earth would long since have disappeared. As with other ecological systems, this one is an iceberg: The part we can’t see is far bigger and more complex than the small fragments that intrude into our everyday lives. Most of the time, then, we are able to remain blissfully unaware of where everyone’s next meal is coming from. We may be able to talk comfortably about the water cycle, despite the probability of eventually drinking “Cleopatra’s bathwater,” but most of us would rather not examine the nutrient cycle too closely. Perhaps the Halloween season is a good time to talk a bit about the fate that awaits us all, humans, mice, and pine trees alike. Though some may say “we’re a long time dead,” the truth is that, sooner or later, reincarnation is a virtual certainty. We’re not immortal, but the chemicals within us are.

Most of the critters that carry out the phases of decomposition spend much of their lives in soil or in the litter layer that often covers it. The first steps, of course, are occasionally carried out by larger organisms, like mice and squirrels and cows, who eat plant materials and then deposit the indigestible portions on the ground. In the global cycle, that’s only an optional side trip for carbon and nitrogen—most of the organic material tied up in plants, even in the hugest redwoods, will be released by much smaller organisms, those we tend to dismiss as insignificant.

Only in size can we easily dismiss them, for soil life is diverse and abundant. In a good season, one prairie acre might harbor two billion microarthropods (such as mites and springtails), as many as five million earthworms, and 200,000 millipedes. A host of insects and macroarthropods, such as fly larvae, termites, pillbugs, and crickets, also participate in decomposition. Outnumbering them all would be the nematodes, or roundworms: At 22 billion per acre, they are among the most abundant organisms on the planet, and are found in pretty much everything and everybody. In the prairie environment, almost half of the nematodes feed on fungi, which are also abundant soil inhabitants, along with the couple of tons of bacteria also present.

A forest ecosystem, of course, is equally dependent on those tiny soil inhabitants, and some forests produce enough organic matter to support even larger populations of such critters. In our dry forests, decomposition is far less obvious than in the moister forests across the great divide. It may go on more slowly, but still it must go on. It may have to hide, literally, from the light of day, but this is one process that works just fine in the dark. Unless we go looking for evidence of decomposition, sifting through leaves and litter or kicking open rotting logs, we will rarely see this process in action.

When conditions are just right, with cool weather and a little moisture, the last participants in the decomposition process begin to “flower,” reminding us of this unsuspected underground world. Suddenly, often overnight, mushrooms appear in our meadows and forests. Their forms are as varied as their cryptic lifestyles, and we often name them for their underworld associations: Destroying Angel, Jack-o’-lantern, Devil’s Snuffbox, Witches’ Butter, Dead Men’s Fingers are all names that remind us Halloween is approaching. And all are the tips of their own respective icebergs, appearing above ground to spread their spores, ensuring that nowhere on Earth will dead things go undecomposed. If one Giant Puffball (Calvatia gigantea) can produce seven trillion spores, few acres will miss receiving their fair complement.

The real decomposition work, however, is being done by the mycelium, a webby mass of underground strands, called hyphae, that makes up the body of the fungus and occasionally produces the “fruit” we see. Some mycelia are annuals that grow from a single spore each year and die after one season. In contrast, other fungi form “fairy rings,” whose fantasy name reflects our attempt to explain their mysterious origin. Whether produced by deadly Amanita or delicate Marasmius, the rings are formed by the outward growth of mycelia that live year after year and form mushrooms only where they are actively growing. Fairy rings have been found in Colorado that may have taken more than 500 years to develop.

Puffballs spread their spores on the wind, as our child-selves know, but some mushrooms depend on animals to consume the tempting fruits and spread the spores; the stinkhorns even attract flies for that purpose. Slugs, mice, turtles, and squirrels, as well as deer and cattle, will eat these seasonal temptations when they can. We humans are also attracted by the culinary qualities of many species of mushrooms, and by the exotic substances (hallucinogenic or merely deadly) produced by others. The economic importance of edible mushrooms and the yeasts who bring us beer and bread is offset a bit by the financial havoc wrought by the many fungi that cause tree and crop diseases. In the end, however, both of these aspects pale in comparison to the service soil fungi provide us by assuring the final chemical breakdown of organic matter into its constituent minerals. Without the help of these fungi and other decomposers, the continual recycling of life from one form to another would end, and the wheels of chemical reincarnation would stop turning forever.

Copyright © 2013 Sally L. White

Douglas-fir: By any other name

The tree we know today as Douglas-fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii) baffled botanists for decades. People have known it as yellow spruce, red spruce, red fir, Douglas spruce, and Oregon pine. It’s not unusual for a plant to have many common names, but this one has tried on many botanical names as well. Botanists first called it Pinus taxifolia, the pine with yew-like leaves. Later, they tried squeezing it in with spruces, then firs. In 1867, 75 years after it was made known to western science, they finally gave up and created a new genus (Pseudotsuga) to house Douglas-fir and its oriental cousins. Pseudotsuga, meaning false hemlock, reflects its similarity to true hemlocks, or Tsuga, which, to compound the confusion, is the Japanese word for larch.

Our species is named for Archibald Menzies, Scottish naturalist with the Vancouver Expedition, who first collected it in 1792. These grand trees occur from British Columbia to the highlands of northern Mexico, although our Rocky Mountain version of Douglas-fir (the hyphen reminds us it’s not a true fir) is sometimes considered to be a distinct variety, called glauca for its bluish color. A second American species, bigcone Douglas-fir (Pseudotsuga macrocarpa) occurs in southern California.

The accepted common name honors another Scotsman, David Douglas, pioneer explorer-botanist of the Pacific Coast, who collected the seeds of Douglas-fir and also discovered many other new conifers in California and the Pacific Northwest. He once wrote to William Jackson Hooker, recipient of the many specimens he sent to England:Douglas-fir: By any other name. Illustration by Jan Ratcliffe (sketch of Douglas-fir)“You will begin to think that I manufacture pines at my pleasure.” New species were, in those days, more abundant than botanists.

Through all the confusion of nomenclature, the trees have, of course, not changed perceptibly—nor has their utility been compromised by botanical uncertainties. If this tree was tough to categorize, it was easy to appreciate. In the temperate rainforests where Douglasfir was first “discovered,” its size, abundance, and the quality of its wood were all that mattered, and few cared what you called it. When you hear “old-growth forest” on the evening news, this coastal Douglas-fir is the tree in question. It comprises almost 90% of those forests.

From the Blue Ox to the Spotted Owl, Douglas-fir is part of our lore and landscape and more. For a century and a half, Douglas-fir has literally formed the foundation of our history and development.

In Oregon and Washington, Douglas-firs may reach 300 feet in height and 15 feet in diameter. Who could resist such timber? No one did. Its contributions to western civilization have been both mundane and monumental: from the humble 2x4s that hold up our roofs to the massive beams of the Mormon Tabernacle, from the railroad ties and telephone poles that knit the growing West together to new (in 1925) masts for the U.S.S. Constitution, Douglas-fir has served our needs. Its popularity was assured, in part, by the demise of virgin eastern white pine, which had provided the Constitution’s original masts in 1798, but no longer grew tall enough to do so. That species had dominated the lumber market from the late 1700s until its virgin stands were logged beyond effective use a century later. (Eastern white pine still occupies its original range, but it has not yet returned to its original glory.) Logging firms from the east shipped their lumberjacks (and sometimes their entire operations, mill and all) west to the new frontiers of timber, to the great forests of Douglas-fir.

Here in the Rocky Mountains, our trees do not grow nearly as big or as quickly. They can reach diameters of three feet and heights of 130 feet at maturity; about half the height of large scale coastal Douglas-fir. Our trees are, by necessity, better able to withstand drought and are less shade tolerant than those in the Northwest. Rocky Mountain trees are also valuable as timber, though less so than their coastal cousin. Douglas-fir makes up about 10 percent of Colorado’s forest acreage, but only accounts for about 5 percent of the harvested wood.

Never mind the differences—you’ll recognize Douglas-fir wherever you find it. The 3-pronged bracts between the cone scales are unique to Pseudotsuga. In fact, it’s often easiest to recognize Douglas-fir along the trail by the squirrel-cut cones you see on the ground; the leafy tops are often too tall to distinguish. You’ll find its needles are flat but blunt, giving it a softer feel than spruces; its twigs are somewhat roughened—not as much as in spruces, but more than those of true firs. The graceful presence of Douglas-fir illuminates our woodlands from the foothills to the upper montane, but it rarely occurs in large, single-species stands. At its lower elevations, it often accompanies ponderosa pine, replacing it on the cooler north-facing slopes. In southern Colorado, it’s likely to be found with white fir (Abies concolor).

In addition to its value to us humans, Douglas-fir provides many services to wildlife. Its branches provide cover and nesting sites; its seeds provide nourishment, but keep critters busy in the process. With 20 to 30 seeds per cone, a bushel of cones yields about half a pound of seeds. That’s the entire production of an average tree in a good year. At that rate, by my clumsy calculation, it would take about 12 Douglas-fir trees to support one hungry squirrel through winter—if he can get all the seeds. (In real life, it probably takes even more trees. Squirrels might do better on ponderosa pine seeds, which have more calories, but they’ll have to work harder to get them out of the tougher cones.)

So how does a tree make sure some seeds survive to grow new trees? By tricking those pesky squirrels, and anyone else who’s looking for lunch. Douglas-fir, and a number of other trees, have “learned” to do this by starving the squirrels (or forcing them to look for food elsewhere) during most years, then overwhelming them with a massive seed crop in an occasional good year. Because the squirrels can’t take advantage of this sudden wealth, seeds have a better chance to escape and some will grow. Douglas-fir generally has one complete failure and two or more light crops between heavy, or “mast,” years. After each the squirrels must be prepared for a few lean ones ahead.

Copyright © 2012 Sally L. White

A Harvest for the Holly Days

That holiday tradition of “decking the halls” is a long one still well practiced today. Seeing our homes and streets festooned with greenery, we might think little has changed from those nostalgic Victorian Christmases we emulate. Gathering decorative greens, however, is a rite best practiced in places where sustained harvests are possible. How well have familiar—and some not so familiar—holiday plants withstood the pressures of our seasonal festivities?

Taking the old songs seriously, we might observe a notable lack of “boughs of holly” in our local decorations. I’ve seen quite a few Christmases, and I’ve yet to see more than a small twig of actual holly at a time. In the milder climates of England and southern Europe, where it is native, holly (Ilex aquifolium) grows into a tree some 70 feet tall, and it is perhaps still feasible to harvest entire boughs for the mantelpiece. According to one study, regeneration of holly trees is not dependent on the seeds eaten by birds, which are deposited under trees in great numbers, because seedlings cannot survive the deep shade and high competition there. Most successful young trees are found in well-lit patches where they are safe from grazing animals. Thus, cows may hold a key to holly’s long-term survival. Gardeners hold another: Many species of holly are also cultivated in milder parts of the U.S.A Harvest for the Holly Days. Illustration by Jan Ratcliffe (sketch of holly)

Ground pines, among my favorite plants, were once used to make wreaths—and may still be in lusher northern regions, such as Scandinavia. I think that most of us were born too late to see such abundance of this obscure plant in the U.S. You’ll find no red or white berries on this primitive plant—only spores. Other than decorative uses, those spores seem to be the most useful feature. They have been used for baby powder, to stop bleeding, and for flash powder for early photography. Thus the reproductive effort of these plants once literally went up in smoke

Ground pines, also known as clubmosses, have had their day, and that day ended more than 300 million years ago. Thanks to the Denver Museum of Nature and Science, we can imagine what these ancient trees of the coal age may have looked like. These plants invented trees—and forests! Lepidodendron, the ‘scale-tree’ as one example, was more than 100 feet tall, and grew in dense forests in the equatorial swamps then prevalent across North America and Europe. They, too, eventually went up in smoke: the vast coal deposits these prehistoric forests formed have kept entire countries warm for decades.

Now those ancient giants are gone, and only about 450 species of their lowly relatives survive. Most survivors belong to the genus Lycopodium, or ‘wolf’s foot’ to Greek enthusiasts. We have few species of Lycopodium in Colorado. Most abundant, though hardly common, is the unusual Lycopodium annotinum, or stiff clubmoss, growing on the West Slope in small patches. This species occurs from Greenland to Alaska, where it is found in mature forests, especially those not disturbed by logging for many decades, and is occasionally eaten by moose. It is ranked S4, “apparently secure”, in Colorado; very secure in much of Canada. Another species, L. alpinum, is “critically imperiled” in Colorado and Newfoundland, but rated apparently secure in the Yukon, British Columbia, and Alberta.

Are the remaining clubmosses on the way to extinction? If so, it may be that we have helped them down that road a bit. In moist forests of turn-of-thecentury New England, ground pines were harvested in great volume for wreath material and other halldecking. As a child in the northeast, I remember these wonderful plants but never found them in great abundance. About six inches tall at most, spreading outward in patches under the trees, these plants do resemble miniature pine trees. As with most “useless” plants of the forest floor, they are rarely discussed in forestry studies and rarely thrive in managed forests and tree plantations. In New York today, lycopods are protected on public lands, as they all, as a group, are considered to be declining and vulnerable to exploitation, in part because they regenerate very slowly after being harvested. Commercial collecting has made some species rare; the L. complanatum I remember is now considered “critically imperiled” in New York State, but L. obscurum remains secure there. [Explore the status of species of Lycopodium at NatureServe.org.]

Our wreaths and boughs today usually substitute easily gathered pine, spruce, and fir branches for these older plants. Some of us may be able to harvest boughs from our own backyards; most of us probably cannot. A few commercial collecting permits are offered in our nearby national forests; one year the Arapahoe-Roosevelt Forest sold commercial permits for about 8 tons of boughs at $50 per ton. (If you have a permit to cut a Christmas tree, you are allowed to pick up a few boughs for personal use.) Decorative boughs for wreaths and garlands are harvested from private lands in Colorado as well.

Some coniferous decorations offered for holiday sale here and elsewhere in the U.S. are imported from the Pacific Northwest, where trees are larger and grow more quickly. In fiscal year 2010 on the Okanogan and Wenatchee National Forests in Washington State, more than 60,000 pounds of conifer limbs and boughs were harvested, not counting the bushels of cones and other “foliage.” Perhaps some of this year’s harvest—regional or imported—will end up brightening your own front door.

Copyright © 2013 Sally L. White

Snowbirds

Author: Ann Bonnell

Date: January 2012

Sometimes called “Snowbirds,” Darkeyed Juncos are slightly larger than House Finches, with white feathers at the outside edges of their tails. They always show up at your yards and feeders with the first snowfall of the season. The word junco comes from the scientific name for the genus coming from the Latin “a rush.” This remains a mystery as juncos are not normally associated with reeds or rushes, only occasionally found in bogs. It may be from Junco – Medieval Latin for the Reed Bunting which this genus resembles. Linnaeus gave them their scientific name Junco hyemalis. He was a Swedish scientist and noticed they showed up only in winter, the Latin hiemalis meaning of or belonging to winter.

At one time the juncos were separate species, however in 1973 most of them were lumped into Dark-eyed Juncos. The old species are now called subspecies, forms, races or types depending upon the author. Currently under Dark-eyed Junco are Slatecolored Junco, Oregon Junco, Pink-sided Junco, Gray-headed Junco, White-winged Junco, and the Red-backed Junco. The Yellow-eyed Junco is a separate species. The juncos that were lumped into Dark-eyed Junco can often be identified separately; however because of cross-breeding some identifications can be difficult. Those we can’t put in a definite slot we call “form.” Juveniles in mid-summer are a challenge as they look like streaky sparrows. The adult juncos we see have pale, pinkish-white conical shaped bills and they are not streaked. Currently juncos belong to the Sparrow Family. At one time they were included in the Finch Family.

Juncos nest in relatively open coniferous forests or mixed woods with patches of open ground and brush from 8,000′ to 10,000′ elevation. The nest is often tucked up against a log, tree, and shrub or in a crevice. The nest is made of grass, plant fibers, moss, rootlets, bark, and twigs lined with finer materials such as hair. The female builds the nest. The male will sing his one pitch, soft trill from the top of a nearby tree. During courtship a pair may hop about with wings drooped and tail held forward showing their white, outer tail feathers. She lays 3-5 whitish eggs speckled with brown. Incubation is about 12 days and hatching to fledging is about another 12 days. The legs of the immatures develop rapidly to aid in running from the nest if a predator shows up. Brown-headed Cowbirds sometimes lay eggs in junco nests. I observed an adult junco feeding a juvenile cowbird in the campground at Kenosha Pass. The junco was about ½ the size of the hungry cowbird. The eye color of Dark-eyed Juncos changes from gray or gray-brown to red-brown as they mature from juveniles to adults. In Colorado our breeding form of Dark-eyed Junco is the Gray-headed Junco. They live year-round in Colorado and are the only juncos we see in summertime. In fall as the weather gets colder and snows start our breeding Gray-headed Juncos move down in elevation and some may even leave the area heading farther south. The other juncos: Grayheaded from farther north, Oregon from areas north and west of us, White-winged from the Dakotas, Slate-colored and Pink-sided from farther north show up along the Front Range. In winter they hang out in small flocks sometimes mixed with chickadees, Bushtits, nuthatches and other species. This gives them a better warning system from predators.

The juncos like to feed on the ground hopping and scratching to find seeds, nuts, some fruits and many different types of insects. Their diet in summer is mostly insects. They feed the nestlings only insects, sometimes regurgitated when the nestlings are very young. In winter their diet is mostly seeds. At your feeder they prefer the small seeds they can crack open such as white millet. They will feed on the ground or at an elevated tray.

Their predators would be hawk, accipiters, egg or nestling eating mammals and snakes. At one time humans shot them for food. John James Audubon commented in his classic Birds of America: Dark-eyed Junco (“… flesh is extremely delicate and juicy”). In 1918 legislation enacted as part of the Migratory Bird Act stopped the hunting of migratory non-game birds except for scientific purposes.

In cold weather juncos, sparrows and finches use thermoregulation while foraging on the ground for food. They will drop down and cover their legs and feet with their breast feathers, pausing in their search for food to warm up. In winter a favorite place to look for juncos is on sunny, bare, south facing slopes.

Some identifying marks to look for in differentiating the adult forms of Dark-eyed Juncos we would normally see in Colorado are: Gray-headed Junco – Dark eyes and area around the eyes, pink bill, pale gray overall, white belly, not distinctly defined, neat, rufous back; Oregon Junco – Only junco with jet black hood contrasting with brown back – the female is paler; Slate-colored Junco – Slate gray with pink bill and white belly; Pink-sided Junco – Slightly larger than Oregon Junco, with pale, bluish gray hood, dark around eyes and rich orange-buff sides; Whitewinged Junco – Larger than Slate-colored, dark around eyes, pale gray throat, distinct, white wingbars and more white feathers at tail edges than other juncos. The Red-backed Junco form from New Mexico is not found in Colorado. The Yellow-eyed Junco is a separate species found in Arizona and Mexico.

How long do juncos live? There are several records of recaptures after 8 ½ years. Young juncos have been recorded returning after migration to nest within 50 yards of the nest location they fledged.

Mila et al. (2007) conclude the entire Darkeyed Junco species has undergone a rapid post-Pleistocene radiation from the south, diversifying in the past 10,000 years into the various forms we see today.

Information for this article was collected from many sources. Perhaps the Snowbirds will visit you this winter.

Copyright © 2013 Ann Bonnell

Fall Harvest: the Gift That Keeps on Giving

Year after year, domestic and wild plants give us—and local wildlife—”free food,” as it were. But some years are special. Trees bent under the weight of fruit they carried; now pantry shelves bend under the weight of jams and jellies as we try to cope with overwhelming abundance.

In the nut and seed world, when plants overwhelm the critters waiting to gobble their seeds, we call it a “mast year.” Production becomes so impressive we can’t help noticing. For pinons and perhaps acorns, this seems to be one of those years. Seed-eaters will never be able to keep up, and the trees will have a chance to produce seedlings that survive. Of course, it may take them a few years to recover from the effort. Mast years often recur on a semi-regular basis, with famine years in between, as if the trees were indeed exhausted. In fact, that’s part of the strategy of masting. Populations of mice, birds, and other seed predators can’t depend on the high production; they have to survive those lean years as well. By being undependable, trees improve their chance of reproductive success. The trees may seem to give freely, but feast is sure to be followed by famine.

The unfamiliar word “mast” literally means food. From the Old English and High German, it traditionally referred to the beech nuts and acorns that dramatically littered the forests of Europe some years and provided quantities of food, mostly for hogs. In temperate areas, however, many woody species have mast years, even our own native conifers and oak. What’s dramatic is that trees of a given species often synchronize, so that their mast years coincide, and woe, in the form of increased seed loss, befalls the misfits. Environmental conditions help control the timing of mast years, but not necessarily as we would expect. For ponderosa pine, for example, this fall’s seed crops were determined by prevailing conditions back in 1996.

Each fall, as seeds of all kinds embark on adventures beyond imagining, a vast harvest begins. Although we may see squirrels busily cutting cones, most of the harvest activity will go unnoticed. For some seeds, getting far away from the parent—where they are easy targets for predators—is crucial to survival. But there’s no guarantee life will be any easier after they get away. [In recent decades, ecologists have shown us that what happens to seeds helps determine what our landscapes look like. Once seeds leave the parent tree, they become invisible and we tend to forget about them—at least until we see new plants coming up. But the seeds are everywhere among the fallen needles and in the soil, as the critters that depend on them never forget.]

Although winged seeds have distance potential, most seeds will fall near their parent plant. For heavy seeds like acorns, travel is limited mostly to places the squirrels take them. Acorns don’t always stay where they fall either. If they land near the route of a foraging wild turkey, for example, their days are up; they become part of his daily calories. A Douglas-fir tree can deposit more than 300 seeds per square meter—that’s about 30 per square foot—directly below its canopy. A large Engelmann spruce puts down thousands of seeds per square meter close to home, but some, if they get into the wind, are carried off. There will still be hundreds of spruce seeds per square meter 150 meters out from the parent tree. If the seed crop is reduced 50% by a poor season or by seed-eaters, the number of seeds getting any distance away is also halved. That leaves plenty for colonization, which is what dispersal is for, after all. Once they land, they’re still vulnerable: in one study of Douglas-fir, 69% of the seeds were eaten or otherwise lost, but the remaining seeds still produced 3.7 seedlings per square meter.

Birds and small mammals collect and bury seeds, especially large nutritious tree seeds, after dispersal. The catch is that caching often works better for these predators than it does for the seeds. In a study of 840 pine seeds in 35 caches made by deer mice, the fate of seeds appears grim indeed. Ten caches were dug up and eaten before the end of autumn; nine more were destroyed the following May; and the others were used through the winter. Forty-nine plants developed from only six of the caches, but the mice uprooted and killed seedlings in three of them. At the end of the first growing season, only one cache still had live seedlings. Next time you see clumps of pine and Douglas-fir seedlings germinating from caches during a wet spring, you might want to go back later and see how many survivors you can find.

Does predation matter? Are forests endangered by mice and squirrels? Studies show that when one cause of mortality is eliminated, others often increase to compensate. Imagine all those cachebased seedlings again. In each clump, not all can survive as trees. Many more will die young, even if the mice don’t get them. Despite fears that forests will be decimated, seed predation only becomes relevant when it reduces the number of seeds below the number of seedlings that can survive in the environment.

The good news is that a plant, even a large tree,needs to reproduce successfully only once in its lifetime to replace itself; its odds are good despite massive losses. You might say that plants pay, sometimes dearly, for the dispersal services they receive. Caching may determine which seed, among the millions produced in the lifetime of a tree, will survive to replace its parent. But because predators cache more seeds than they need, most years improve the odds even further, as more caches are left uneaten. Those uneaten seeds are future forests, gifts to future generations of birds, mice, squirrels, and to all of us.

Copyright © 2011 Sally L. White

Everything’s Rosy!

Here in Colorado’s foothills and mountain slopes, our future is rosy. So is our present, and for some time, so has been our past. We are fortunate in that almost everywhere we look, we see roses. Although June is the traditional month for traditional roses, the native roses we enjoy here often appear in May. Many of them, however, masquerade under other names, some even under disguises so complete most of us never suspect their true identities. There are roses hiding, literally, in almost every one of the flowering shrubs we seek out for their color and beauty each spring.

Roses have long been the domesticated friends of humans, serving in a variety of capacities. Flower and fruit provide pleasure and food, fragrance and sustenance. Among familiar tame roses, we find apples, pears, peaches, apricots, cherries, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries: It’s hard to make a fruit pie without involving one or another of Rose’s cousins. If these fruits seem too diverse to be related, it’s because the Rose Family, with 3,000 members worldwide and 69 species here, is large and a bit unwieldy. Botanists often divide it into three separate subfamilies: The apple subfamily, with its multi-seeded fruits, includes pears, quinces, and hawthorns; the peach subfamily includes the “stone” fruits, cherries, plums, and apricots; and the rose subfamily is a catch-all for the rest—strawberries, true roses, potentillas, raspberries, and so on. A close look at the flower reveals an underlying unity: Five petals and sepals—and many, many stamens—characterize roses.

Everything's Rosy! by Sally White (drawing of a wild rose)If you think first of our wild pink rose, you’re on the right track. It alone, of all our local roses, retains the Latin name Rosa, although its specific name is variously given as arkansana, woodsii, acicularis, depending on where you are. Most of us have difficulty separating these very similar species—for good reason, as Rosa itself is described as “taxonomically difficult.” This genus alone has rosebuds, leaves, and “hips” nearly identical to those of our tame backyard roses, and is sought for rose hip jelly or tea. The Rose Family also includes many other dramatic and ubiquitous native shrubs. All are attractive enough, at least to me, to serve in domesticated situations, as well as in wild landscapes. Native roses—mountain mahogany, serviceberry, chokecherry, wild plum, potentilla—are readily available in the nursery trade, though you may have hunt for them. We’re fortunate that local nurseries stock all of these and many other native shrubs. Several local roses also provide food, at least for those who trouble to collect fruit for chokecherry or wild plum jelly (or wine!) each fall. Chokecherries and plums are also greatly appreciated by coyotes and other local wildlife who enjoy their abundance in season. If you don’t know how chokecherries got their name, try one!

Our other woody roses also have much to offer. The hawthorns (Crategus erythropoda and C. macracantha), with their lovely white flowers, glossy leaves, bright red fruits, and thorny red stems, are often found in foothills canyons. Feathery fruits adorn Apache plume (Fallugia paradoxa), a more-distant native transplanted from lower deserts. Rock spirea (Holodiscus dumosus) is a distinctive local shrub with a loose spike of minute rosy-pink flowers and soft, almost pleated leaves.

Two that may be less familiar but are well worth looking for are the Boulder raspberry (Rubus deliciosus) and mountain ninebark (Physocarpus monogynus). The Boulder raspberry, with conspicuous white flowers and less-than-inspiring fruits, seems to tolerate sun and shade, and thus is seen in a variety of habitats. Mountain ninebark has tiny white flowers in clusters—the plants look like spring snowdrifts in shady areas. It grows a little higher in elevation and blooms a little later than other roses. Both have an orangish, shredded bark that offers winter interest.

To avoid entrapment by the thousands of rose clichés western civilization has inherited, I’m being vigilant against a powerful temptation. Who could write about these plants that have so long and so gracefully served humankind without repeating the discoveries of centuries of Rose’s admirers? I’ll leave it to you to remember our rosy sayings, but I think you’ll agree it’s hard to name another plant family that’s given us so much symbolism and legend down through the ages: from Eve’s apple, to the briars that grew up to protect Sleeping Beauty’s castle, to the symbol of love and loyalty still used by swains today. In song, in poetry, in our hearts, roses hold a special place. This year, remembering our natives, let the roses of Mother’s Day say even more than they usually do.

And I will make thee beds of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies…

Copyright © 2013 Sally L. White

The Bird Family with an Attitude: The Corvids

The Corvids are probably the most notable family of birds with an attitude. They are loud, pushy and act like they are the boss, running off other bird species and often eating other birds’ eggs and hatchlings. The Corvids found in our area include Common Raven, American Crow, Western Scrub-Jay, Pinyon Jay, Blue Jay, Steller’s Jay, Gray Jay, Clark’s Nutcracker and Black-billed Magpie.

Each species has a special habitat or niche. All Corvids have stiff, bristle-like feathers covering their nostrils. They are omnivorous; they’ll eat most anything. In addition to the bad habits they often get blamed for, they do a good job of eating large quantities of harmful insects. They also harvest and store tree seeds, which they sometimes forget about, and the seeds then grow into new forests. Bird watchers thank them for finding owls and hawks which they noisily mob, giving away the raptor’s hard-to-see perch. Corvids often mate for life, each assisting with nest building, and feeding hatchlings and fledglings. Often young birds from a previous hatch will help with feeding the young of a later hatch. Many Corvids live more than 20 years. Some stay on home territories and some migrate in family groups or large flocks, either to lower elevations or by short migrations to warmer climates for the winter. They often become quiet and secretive when nesting. The “bad” in their behavior earned them places in the folklore of many cultures. In Europe they were considered “Devil’s birds.” Some cultures, such as those in the Pacific Northwest, revere them. Corvids are considered to be among the most intelligent of all bird groups. Many will recall with unerring accuracy where they have stashed food for the winter. Flocks of Corvids have been known to post one of their own to watch for danger while the others eat, sleep or loaf. David Sibley informs us that recent DNA-hybridization studies suggest that Corvids arose from an Australian ancestor. The same ancestor also gave rise to many distinctive Australian bird families, including wren-like, warbler-like, and flycatcher-like groups. North American shrikes and vireos are thought to be offshoots of the same line. Many Corvids contracted the West Nile virus when it first appeared in the U.S. in 1999, decimating populations. In the last few years population numbers have begun to recover.

Steller’s Jay is usually found in Colorado between 6,000 and 9,000 feet elevation. They are named after George Steller, a German naturalist who accompanied Vitus Bering on his Russian-sponsored expedition to see if the coasts of Siberia and Alaska were contiguous. George Steller collected the first Stellar’s jay specimen in 1741. Steller’s Jays are excellent mimics. Multiple times I have been fooled into thinking a Red-tailed Hawk was present and calling, when in fact it turned out to be a Steller’s jay. They can also do a reasonably good job of mimicking the sound of a rattlesnake. They were formerly known as Longcrested jays because of the long crest of black feathers on the head. The Steller’s jay nests are hard to find and they are often incubating eggs by early May. Lt. Abert on Fremont’s third expedition described this jay well in 1845 when he wrote “a jay whose plumage partook of the color of the darkest blue of a clear sky.”

Common Ravens are probably the most famous of the Corvids. They soar in elaborate, twirling displays during courtship. They prefer rocky ledges as hangouts and for nesting. Ravens never retrieve sticks from the ground for their nests, preferring to break dead branches from trees for nest building. Ravens, like owls and raptors, regurgitate pellets of indigestible parts of things they eat. When trying to differentiate them from American Crows, it helps to look for the raven’s wedgeshaped tail, to listen for the raven’s hoarse, croak call, and to watch for mostly soaring flight, with very little wing-flap. They have a larger bill than crows. In folklore, the raven flew off from Noah’s ark to find land. A story in the Bible tells of ravens bringing food to a prophet who was starving in the wilderness. Old Testament laws forbid eating ravens and crows because they were considered unclean. They are depicted on many totem poles of the Inuit, Tlingit and Haida cultures. In merrye olde England, it was believed that if the resident ravens left the Tower of London, King Charles II’s kingdom would fall. Since that time, the ravens are fed and cared for by a Ravenmaster to prevent any such disaster from occurring. The Ravenmaster clips a few flight feathers from one wing of each bird regularly to keep the birds from flying away. When these particular ravens die, they are buried in a special grave by the Middle Drawbridge, and each has a plaque with its name and age at death. One of the most famous Colorado ravens belonged to Catherine “Birdie” Hurlbutt. Catherine took in hundreds of injured and sick birds and nursed them back to health, rescuing them in a very old car painted white with “Bird Ambulance” printed on the side. In 1971 she decided to do some research on teaching birds to talk. She mail ordered a young raven from another state (a practice outlawed the next year). She spent many hours teaching “Edgar” the raven to say “nevermore.” In Edgar’s first few years he learned to say, “Nevermore, Hi-ya, Edgar, you’re a bad boy and hello.” Catherine called Edgar a he in most of her book, Edgar and I. In the later years of writing the book she discovered Edgar was a she because of certain courtship behaviors Edgar displayed. Edgar lived for 24 years. Catherine’s book is a fun read relating her stories of Edgar in addition to other bird rescue tales.

American Crows are usually found in open and semiopen habitats. They have straight, square-ended tails and a clearer, higher-pitched call than a raven. They are smaller than ravens and flap their wings a lot when flying. Opening up roads and creating forest clearings has helped them move into new areas. During the winter, crows often gather in large flocks, flying in one day from roost to eating areas, then on to loafing areas, then to another eating area and at the end of the day back to the communal roost. Crows love to hoard bright objects. They also regurgitate pellets of indigestible material. The Tillamook Native Americans have a story about the Thunderbird (who was responsible for making thunder and lightning) not liking its voice and working a deal to trade its voice with the crow. In exchange, the Thunderbird would make lower tides along the coast so the women of the Tillamook clan could gather more clams. We have many sayings about crows: “Eat crow” when one finds it necessary to retract a deed or quote. “Straight as the crow flies “illustrates the crow’s habit of flying in a straight line to their roost. Age puts “crow’s feet” wrinkles around the eyes. During courtship the male spreads his wings and tail, fluffs body feathers and bows several times to the female while singing a rattling song. Many crows have been poisoned, shot and even dynamited when they gather in large flocks of thousands to eat farmers’ crops.

Western Scrub Jays are found along the Front Range in the Transition Zone from the plains to the mountains. They hang out in scrub (Gambel) oak. They are usually found in small family groups and stash the oak acorns for food so they can have them later. They will come to a bird feeder, run off all the little birds, and proceed to pick up as many as 20 sunflower seeds in one visit, which they will then stash in their hide outs in the ground, in cracks and bark crevices, even in snow banks. They may migrate short distances south, especially in years when the acorn crop is poor. They have no crest and look grayish until the sun touches their feathers. They were once called Woodhouse’s Jay. They will also hoard bright objects

Pinyon Jays are sometimes found in small flocks in our area. Like the Western Scrub jay, the Pinyon jay has no crest, however, they are bluer than Scrub jays, especially on the breast. Their calls are very different than the calls of Western Scrub jays. Pinyon jays prefer Pinyon pine/juniper habitat but sometimes show up along the lower foothills in Ponderosa pine areas. They often walk instead of hop as other jays do. Crows and Clark’s nutcrackers also walk. Genetically Pinyon jays fit intermediately between jays and crows. They are one jay that does not have bristles covering their nostrils giving them their scientific name Gymnorhinus which means naked nose. They were discovered by Alexander Philip Maximilian, Prince of Wied, noted German traveler who first found them in Montana in 1883. They breed in colonies. Breeding is triggered by availability of Pinyon nuts which they cache for food in late winter, often when snow is still on the ground. If you find seedling trees uphill from a parent tree, most likely a Pinyon jay cached and forgot. Pinyon nuts cached by squirrels and birds and then forgotten can sprout and grow.

Blue Jays have crests. They were originally found in states east of Colorado, however, when we created their favorite habitat by planting Eastern region trees and shrubs, they gradually moved up river courses to Denver (the first record in Jefferson County: September 24, 1917). They love to stash seeds from bird feeders. I have watched one in my backyard poke holes in the sod and place the seed in the hole, and then put a leaf over the hole to hide the stash. I then noticed a squirrel who had figured out the ruse, looking under leaves on the ground for gifts left there by the blue jay. Blue jays usually don’t migrate south in winter except for the extreme northern bird populations. They will announce the arrival of a fox, cat, owl or other raptor by loud calls as they mob the intruder. In addition to this loud raucous call they have a quieter flute-like call. In Colorado the blue jay has been known to hybridize with Steller’s jays.

Gray Jay has also been called Rocky Mountain Jay, Canada jay, Jackdaw and Camp Robber. Another name “Whiskey Jack,” is believed to have come from their Cree name of “Wisca Chan.” They are the only Old World jay present in the New World. They have a large round head and small bill. They are very tame and will snatch up food left unattended. They are also known to carry off such items as matches, tobacco plugs, pencils, soap and candles. They can store food in a sticky bolus mixed with saliva and placed on a limb or tucked under tree bark for use in lean times. Some jays have been known to remember as many as 1,000 separate caches.[Is this the gray jay, or jays in general?] Gray Jays are mostly silent and are usually found in pairs or small groups. Their habitat is the Montane Zone and Boreal Forest of Engleman spruce, Douglas fir and Lodgepole pine. Any migration is usually to a lower elevation in winter. They usually start nesting in late March while snow is deep; the eggs hatch in early April.

Clark’s Nutcracker, which was once known as Clark’s Crow or the Woodpecker Crow, is named after Captain William Clark of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. The Clark’s Nutcracker is like a combination of a woodpecker and a crow. It has a long, stout bill which it uses to open pine cones and eat the seeds. It often walks instead of hopping. They are found near timberline along crests of higher mountains, usually in small groups. They can do a good mimic of the calls of the Great Horned Owl and the Pygmy Owl. Their nests are seldom found because they nest during March and April when there is still deep snow on the ground. Female birds loose feathers on their breasts during incubation to enable them to keep the eggs warmer. Clark’s Nutcracker males are unusual in that they also develop these “brood patches.” Research has shown males incubate the eggs as much as 20% of the time. They have been known to collect as many at 30 – 100 seeds at once in a sub-lingual pouch to stash for use in the spring to feed new hatchlings. These caches on south-facing slopes have been known to contain 22,000 to 33,000 conifer seeds.

Black-billed Magpie is a common bird in Colorado open country [and in the foothills, too—at least judging by the numbers that hang around my house on Lookout Mtn!]. Colorado often gets the highest count of Magpies on the annual National Audubon Christmas Count totals by state. Magpies are very noisy birds and they love to steal dog food left outside. Their nests are elaborate, hollowed-out piles of sticks, lined with mud and soft materials , usually containing several entrances. They may spend 40-50 days building a nest. Sometimes, after the Magpies finish nesting, the dome collapses and hawks or owls will take over the location. Magpie eggs are often lain by the third week of April. They usually travel in small, family flocks occasionally increasing to larger flocks in winter. They will perch on livestock, elk, deer and eat ticks or other parasites. The name Magpie may come from the sound of their call. Legend has it that the Magpie was the only bird that refused to enter the Ark, preferring to perch on its roof, from which it could complain about the plights of those caught in the rising flood. Their numbers are increasing after declining dramatically following the onset of the West Nile Virus.

Copyright © 2011 Ann Bonnell

Birds of Jefferson County: Accipiters

“What is that hawk who comes into my yard and eats ‘my’ birds?”

These hawks are probably Accipiters, a sub-group of the birds of prey most easily distinguished by their long tails and short, broad, rounded wings which allow them to maneuver in and out of trees. Their normal hunting ground is in the forest, but Accipiters have been loosing out to houses, commercial developments and highways. The many small birds that consititute their prey base have adapted to urban living and bird feeders, so seeing these Accipiters hunting in your back yard and nesting in urban settings is becoming more and more commonplace.

The two Accipiters most often seen in the Denver area are the Cooper’s Hawk (Accipiter cooperii) and the Sharp-shinned hawk (Accipiter striatus) – the Sharpy. If you’re in your yard and suddenly you notice that all the birds are fleeing from the feeders, and then everything suddenly gets quiet, search the trees close by. You may see a Cooper’s Hawk or Sharpy quietly sitting and waiting for some small bird to fly into harm’s way.

In my yard I have seen an Evening Grosbeak, which measures just over 7 inches tip to tail, taken by an Accipitor. I have also watched as a Cooper’s Hawk stepped into my 2″ deep birdbath and spent 15 minutes deciding whether or not to take a bath. Then he splashed about for another 30 minutes, spreading his wings and bending over sideways to bathe. The Cooper’s Hawk is about 17″ long. The Sharpy is smaller, about 12″ long, however – because the female Sharpy is larger than the male, a Sharp-shinned female can be about the same size as a male Cooper’s Hawk.

Photo - AccipitersTelling the two species apart can be difficult, the accompanying photo is representative of either species, although, by consensus of opinion, we think the Accipiter is a Cooper’s Hawk and his prey a sparrow of some sort. As adults, both are dark gray above and lighter below with buff-colored stripes on the breast. The most distinguishing feature of both species is the tail…long, wide and banded, alternating dark and light brown, with white tipping at the end. A Sharpy has a straight-edged tail with a little white at the outer end. The Cooper’s Hawk has a rounded tail with more white showing at the end. Feather wear can modify the appearance of the tail feathers, causing identification confusion. Adult birds of both species have red eyes while their youngsters have yellow eyes. Sharpys often have some white blotchy feathers on the back.

In flight, the Sharpy tucks its head into its wings, while the Cooper’s Hawk extends its head – some have described a Cooper’s Hawk in flight as “a flying cross.” A Cooper’s Hawk weighs about a pound while a Sharpy weighs only about half a pound.

One day I was at my bird feeders when one came at me chasing a sparrow – couldn’t tell if it was a Cooper’s Hawk or a Sharpy, they were moving so fast. The sparrow went to my right and the Accipiter to my left. The sparrow got away. In the bird world there are predators and there are prey…don’t be too alarmed if you witness an Accipiter doing what he’s supposed to be doing at your feeder or in your yard. This is just part of the way of the wild.

Copyright © 2011 Ann Bonnell