My husband Tom, who manages the technical side of this blog, has been watching the search terms that bring traffic to the site. While the random one-off searches can make for interesting reading (today someone found the Tangled Nest by searching for “the world is our tool for love”–I guess that’s good!), certain terms come up over and over. One of the most common search terms bringing people to this site lately is “divebombing crows.” Or, as someone searched for today, in a resonant plea that has finally moved me to write: “crow divebombing help!” Questions about divebombing are also frequently asked at readings for my book, Crow Planet.  I’ve written a little about this before, but given the volume of searchers seeking help, here’s a little more.

Divebombing of humans by crows is a seasonal occurrence, linked to the most vulnerable stages of nesting.  Right now, fledgling crows are emerging from the nest, all of them are naive, and some of them are unable to fly.  It really is a dangerous phase of life for a crow family. Even if you don’t actually see the young, the adult birds may be protecting a nest with eggs, a hidden nest with freshly-hatched chicks, or chicks that have left the nest, and are tucked away in the branches or shrubbery.  In a couple of months, when  the young are grown and self-sufficient, the dive-bombing will stop.

Being so large and loud and bulky, crows are at a disadvantage as nesters. Think about it–most of the urban tree-nesting songbirds are so small.  Robins, chickadees, sparrows, finches.  They can build sweet little nests tucked into shadowy corners, well-camouflaged and difficult to find.  Their young are small too, and easy to hide.  Crows have no such luck.  They are stealthy for their size, but really–it’s hard to hid a big nest full of baby crows, all of them cawing in that baby-crow way, sounding like ducks.  As large, unpredictable mammals, we are rightly perceived as a threat.  HERE’S WHAT TO DO:  If a crow is calling at you during this season, just cross nonchalantly to the other side of the street, ignoring it completely, as if that’s what you meant to do anyway.  Continue on your way, enjoying the day.  If you are divebombed anyway, just keep going–the farther away you get, the better.  Think nice thoughts for the well-being of the crow young–who knows, it might help you seem less threatening to the crow.  If a crow has already determined that you are a threat and is divebombing you on sight (not ideal–other crows will think that this crow has a good reason to hate you, and might join the fun), then avoid the area for awhile.  If that’s impossible, consider a disguise–for real!  A hat that hides your hair color, some sunglasses…

Crows attacking hawks and owls is another common occurrence, and that happens year-round.  Many hawks and owls prey on both adult crows and their young, so crows are very proactive about discouraging their presence.  It’s amazing to watch a few small crows attacking a huge hawk or eagle.  If you hear crows suddenly calling in the neighborhood, it’s worth taking  little walk outside to see what’s going on–you’ll frequently be led to a wonderful wild scene.

The same impulse, of course, is what leads robins to attack crows this season–crows do prey on robin eggs and nestlings.  Robins don’t usually attack crows unless they actually see one approaching or pestering their nest or young.  You have to admire their guts!

I’m not a crow apologist, but I do think it helps to consider matters from the complicated standpoint of an urban-nesting crow parent.  And I think it’s wonderful that, no matter how urban our lives, we can witness firsthand the circle of life from our home places.  Enjoy.

Thanks flickr user Dr. Pat for the great crow image.

That same day, I heard adult Bushtits chirping in our yard, and followed them to the lilac tree and our own little cluster of newly emerged Bushtits.  I love how they huddle, all smooshed together in a little group.  When I mentioned this to Kathryn, she said, “Yes, just like they must have been in their nest.”  True, and wonderful to imagine, as Bushtits lay their eggs and grow their young in the loveliest hanging-basket nests, delicately woven of mosses, lichen, and spider webs. The inner chamber, where the eggs are laid, is lined with the softest possible things–animal fur and feathers–and the whole nest sways gently in the wind, like a cradle.

As nests go, they are relatively easy to spot:  hanging instead of tucked into the fork of a branch; often quite low in the tree; and built in open woodlands, at forest edges, in suburbs, parks, and urban neighborhoods, where we regularly wander.

Even though they are so common here in the western states, Bushtits are sometimes tricky to identify.  We are taught to notice the “field marks” on a bird–the colors, wing bars, eye stripes, tail shape, etc., that are clues to distinguishing it from other species.  But of all the birds in the entire North American field guide, Bushtits are perhaps the most “field markless.”  They are pretty much all brown, often described as “drab,” with no stripes or bars of any kind, just a vaguely lighter-brown breast and a longish tail.  There is one interesting field ID trick with which you can amaze your friends:  the adult female’s eye is light, the male’s is dark.

Bushtits are tiny, tiny, tiny, with a fabulous social structure.  Excepting spring, when the birds pair up for nesting, you never see just one or two Bushtits.  If you do see one in a shrub, look around–there will be a dozen, or three dozen, or more, all traveling as a little Bushtit organism, and if you spend some time watching them in action–their feeding acrobatics and constant movement as they glean small insects–you could never call them drab.

I’ve written before about how I prefer feeding birds with plants, rather than maintaining feeders.  For Bushtits, I allow a few of the invasive fennels that flourish in our herb garden to grow to maturity, even though none of us like fennel.  When the plants go to seed in the late autumn, they are covered with Bushtits and chickadees.  Bushtits weigh almost nothing, and though the fennel fronds are thin and delicate, they don’t bend in the slightest when the Bushtits land on them. We bring dried fennel branches onto the deck, so we can watch the birds feed at close range through the kitchen window.

Y’all know I never miss an opportunity to deliver my favorite sermon, and the season is ripe for it:  If you find a baby bird that has fallen to the ground, but can’t fly, please just pick it up and put it near its nest if you can find it, or on a nearby branch out of harm’s way.  Settle the bird on the branch by covering its eyes lightly with your hand until it is calm.  Softly remove your hand, and then leave.  The adult birds will continue to care for their young.  They cannot “smell human” on the little bird, and even if they could, birds are fabulous parents, and would not abandon their chick!  Let’s work to dispel this myth…

Meanwhile, enjoy this season of wonderful bird behavior, where naive young are learning their way in the world, and protective adult birds are so bold and busy.

The nest and fledgling photos in this post are by Kathryn True, an incredible naturalist, educator, writer, and dear friend.  Visit her website to see some of her work.

Thanks to Flickr users Rick Leche and judy h for adult Bushtit images.

Original enough for me, in spite of the artist’s protestations, and a reminder, in a society focused on the visual, to listen in ways I’ve never even thought of.  But I can’t definitively identify these birds in silhouette.  Any good South American birders to help me out?  I’m thinking an Icterid, perhaps the Shiny Cowbird?

Meanwhile–Peace, love, and birdsong.

We are loving this almost-autumn season, with the pumpkins turning orange, a chill in the still-warm air, the chickens putting themselves to bed earlier every night, and the sunflower heads heavy and drooping with seeds.

Sunflower seeds are super-nutritious.  You can roast your sunflower seeds for tasty human nibbling, or add them into breads and muffins (for ideas, how-tos, and stronger opinions about sunflowers than you ever thought possible, check out this Mother Earth News article from 1976–back in the day!).   Since we have many seed-loving native birds in our neighborhood (chickadees, nuthatches, goldfinches, juncos…), and we don’t maintain feeders, we just leave our sunflowers as homegrown birdfeeders.  The chickadees pluck one seed at at time, then sit on top of the flower to eat it.  Couldn’t be cuter.

Last Friday I received an e-mail from some neighbors that live about five blocks from me.  I’d never met them, but one of Leucy’s favorite perches was right in front of their house.  On the day of Seattle’s new heat record (over 103 degrees), they found her body on the parking strip.  They were heartbroken at the loss of “Brownie,” and were writing to ask if there was anything they could have done to help her, which of course there wasn’t.  I hated to foist my morbid tendencies on this super-nice couple, but this was such an amazing bird–I had to ask, “Did you by any chance save her body?  Maybe pop her in the freezer?”  They hadn’t.  She’d been wrapped in plastic in the garbage for the last three hot days.  Still, after receiving my question, they intrepidly dug her out and put her in the freezer.  I was a touch worried.  But the frozen body is actually in pretty good shape, now in my own freezer, next to the popsicles.  She’s worthy of further study.

All who observed Leucy agree that she was a particularly fabulous bird, both in terms of plumage and personality.  In her uniqueness, she invited people to look closely at the common birdlife around them.  It was her color that drew the initial observation, but her general wild wonderfulness that kept people watching–something shared by all crows, and the rest of the wild life that surrounds us.

Thank you, lovely Leucy, and RIP.

PS: Based on a couple of requests, my husband Tom posted this and another photo of “Leucy” on Flickr.com under a Creative Commons license, meaning you are free to repost them, print them, etc – basically do anything you wish with the images short of profiting from them.  They are at high enough resolution for a 5X7 print (unlike the image above in the blog post). Leucy photo 1, Leucy photo 2.

Hummingbird favorites: Crocosmia, spiraea, sweetpea, nasturtium, and pineapple sage (aka "hummingbird sage").

To bring them up to our deck where we can observe them closely, but without the worry of a feeder, I’ve been placing jars with a few of their favorite flowers along the deck railing.  I’m pretty sure this is the all-time perfect hummingbird feeder:  lovely to look at, pleasant to refill, and much better nectar than I could ever make.  This morning I was enjoying my first cup of java on the porch, and an Anna’s Hummingbird came right up to the jar of pineapple sage, just inches from my face.  I could feel the wind from her wings on my cheek.  What a nice way to start the day–a hummingbird and I, sipping together.

The other day Tom pulled down a House Sparrow nest lodged in an outdoor electrical box, assuming the birds were done with it.  But many resident birds, those that don’t migrate, will attempt a second brood of chicks later in the summer.  These birds first nested in a corner of our gutter, but their nest was destroyed (and their nestlings presumably eaten) by a Steller’s Jay.  There was enough summer weather left for them to try again.  I blocked off their gutter, hoping to discourage them (there are enough House Sparrows on the planet already), but they just moved a few feet away.  Tom was surprised to find four tiny birds huddled in the bottom of the nest, and called for Claire and me to see.

I love how the nest was made entirely from my yard–grasses, mosses, and feathers from my chickens–our two nests, human and avian, truly tangled.

It’s best to ignore wild bird nests–hovering over them can attract the attention of predators such as cats, crows, and jays, plus it makes the adult birds crabby, and can prevent them from tending their chicks.  But this nest belongs to a House Sparrow–a scrappy introduced species that thrives alongside human habitations–and a quick little educational peek at the nest and its inhabitants won’t hurt a thing.  I gently lifted one of the nestlings out for Claire to hold.

Have you heard the pernicious myth that birds will abandon their young if you touch them?  It’s not true!  Most birds do not have highly developed olfactory sense–they certainly can’t sniff “human” on their chicks.  And even if they could, birds are devoted parents; they would never abandon their young for such a silly reason.  If you find a bird that has fallen from its nest, just pick it up gently and put it back.  If you can’t find the nest, put the chick out of harm’s way on a nearby branch.  If the bird is an active almost-fledgling, cover its eyes after you set it on its branch to calm it, then walk slowly away. (You don’t need gloves, just wash with soap after.)  Resist the impulse to check on the bird every few minutes to make sure the parents are caring for it–your presence, no matter how well hidden you think you are, will worry the adults.

Pretty darn cute. I love the "gape" on nestlings--the colorful fleshiness about the bill and inside the mouth that serves as a target for adults with food. If you "cheep-cheep" like a mother bird and tickle their chins, they'll open up like this.

These little nestlings are about 6 days old, and will be ready to fledge in another 12 days or so.  At this stage their feathers are still covered by sheaths, and they keep warm in part by huddling with their siblings.  The inside of a songbird’s nest is remarkably clean. The young poop in handy fecal sacs that are removed or eaten by the adults.

Not everyone was allowed a close look at the chicks, no matter how badly they wanted one...

We observed the birds for just a few minutes, then Tom tucked the nest carefully back in its spot.  It was fun to study and enjoy these chicks, but we try to minimize the number of non-native species nesting in our yard.  Next year I’ll try to block off more House Sparrow nest-spots, and keep providing nest boxes for birds that need them, such as the migratory Violet-green Swallow.

I called Claire–this would be the first tanager she’d seen this year.  “Oh!” she gasped, “It looks tropical!”  Then she covered her mouth and laughed.  “Oh yeah–it is tropical.”  Western Tanagers migrate from Mexico, Central, and South America to build their nests and raise their young in our coniferous forests.  This bird was stopping for water and a short bath, before continuing onward to choose its summer breeding place.   Such migrants will continue to pass through our yard until mid-June.

The related migrant on the east side of the country is the Scarlet Tanager.  Its entire body is covered with the same red as the Western Tanager’s face.  On both birds, it is a startling color that seems to be lit from beneath.  Thoreau referred to the Scarlet Tanager in his diary as the Fire-Never-Redder bird, recalling an acquaintance who, on seeing a tanager for the first time, exclaimed “fire never redder!” and promptly fell in a ditch.

The Western Tanager is one of the many birds that benefit from our choice to drink shade-grown coffee, and I smiled over seeing one in the midst of my morning cup.   In Mexico, avian censuses in coffee monocultures (a modern growing method foisted on farmers in developing countries by “first world” corporations) show that they support only four or five species of birds.  Traditional shade-grown coffee plantations of the same size, with their multistory forest-like plantings protecting the shade-loving coffee shrub, support up to 140 species, including many of the migrant birds–thrushes, warblers, tanagers–that grace our gardens each spring.  (If you have any friends who remain shade coffee skeptics, that’s an astonishing statistic to share!)  As deforestation continues in these birds’ tropical homes, and here in their breeding areas, shade coffee growers provide much-needed habitat and refuge.  (Our current favorite local roaster:  Tony’s in Bellingham.  Their Cafe Carmelita is pure heaven).

The tanager is the avian poster-child for the Seattle Audubon Northwest Shade Coffee Campaign.   The campaign logo features the artwork of local artist and activist Ed Newbold, who couldn’t be more generous in sharing his talent with the community.

Yummy coffee, shining bird, such far-flung wildness right here in my little urban garden.  Winged migrants remind us that our own map-drawn lines mean so very little.  Instead, it is our beautiful, almost unfathomable interconnectedness that rings far, sacred, and true.

Crow-bill hole in the pea patch

As soon as I finished planting and was putting my tools away in the shed, a swirl of three crows flew into the cherry tree, cawing loudly.  I laughed to myself, “They’re calling their friends to say, ‘She’s finished!  Come eat!’”  But I thought I was kidding.  Later I found perfect crow-bill-sized holes in the pea-patch!

In his wonderful book, Living With Wildlife in the Pacific Northwest (which offers a great deal of insight no matter what your geographic region), Russell Link writes, “We love wild animals, or we hate them, depending on what they’re doing.”  Our hearts lift at the robin’s spring song, then in the summer they eat our strawberries.

One morning there was a Cooper’s Hawk perched on the corner of our fence.  So close!  Such beautiful yellow legs, and deep orange eyes!  I rushed to get my binoculars, my first impulse as a bird nerd.  But in the next breath I realized, oh my lord, that bird was eying my six-week-old baby chickens!  Cooper’s Hawks are bird-eaters.  I ran out there like Ma Ingalls, barefoot in the wet grass, my pink flannel pajamas dragging around my feet, waving my arms and yelling “Shoo!”  The hawk looked at me coolly before lifting over the garage roof, and I brought my feathered girls in the kitchen for the day.  I’ve always been critical of farmers that bait “vermin” such as coyotes, wolves, and cougars because they are a perceived threat to livestock, and I still am.  But my thoughts are more nuanced since the hawk incident.  What if I really was Ma Ingalls?  What if those chickens were not my hobby, but my family’s livelihood?  My children’s sustenance?  What if all that were true, and I had a shotgun hanging over the door?

Missing pea plants after crow nibbling

I don’t have any brilliant how-tos for preventing crows from eating your peas.  But I love the reminder that there is no clear line we can draw between our households, our lives, our habits, and the wider, natural world.  Our homey thresholds are flimsy and marginal–they represent the point from which we cross into nature, and wild nature–distressingly sometimes–crosses back.  Such a recognition of our constant, inevitable continuity with the more-than-human world is, I believe, exhilirating, enlivening, and beautiful.

Meanwhile, we protect our chickens, net our strawberries, and wave our arms at waiting crows.  I tossed some  new pea seeds into the holes the crows had made, and they’re beginning to fill in nicely.

This week I received two e-mails from friends who want to know what they can do about their “nemesis”–the woodpecker that is maniacally drumming their house at all hours. This is a frequent spring complaint about Northern Flickers, the most common urban-suburban woodpecker.  They are beautiful fawn-colored birds with black spots, long-ish bills, and pretty, dolphin-like faces.   Unlike many birds, woodpeckers don’t sing–instead, they drum to attract a mate in spring, and to proclaim a territory.  They rap their bills repeatedly and rhythmically on the loudest surface they can find–they love metal drainpipes, electrical transformers, AND the most resonant parts of our houses.  They drive many people completely nuts.

Remember that the flicker’s goal is not to destroy your house, and they usually don’t cause serious damage–they just have a hormone-driven need to make noise this time of year.  To deter them, you can tack something simple, like a length of cloth, over the bird’s favored drumming place.  Birds don’t like things that move randomly, so a windsock, or a trash bag cut into streamers and hung near the birds favorite spot will help discourage them.  My own tack:  run outside waving a broom, and yelling, “Bad woodpecker!  Go away!”

We can also try a gentle attitude shift.  I truly believe it is a privilege and a delight to live alongside native, wild animals, but allowing urban wildlife to thrive sometimes requires us to tolerate a little discomfort.  Woodpecker drumming usually doesn’t hurt anything (besides our nerves–oh, and of course the small matter of the 1995 Space Shuttle mission that was delayed when flickers tapped six little holes into the Discovery’s external fuel tank!).  These woodpecker rhythms are heralding the season of light and fertility, and the noise is temporary (once they get into nesting they stop drumming).  We can try to relax, and celebrate the role that our households play in the cycles of nature.  Think of the unseen cavity-nest full of fluffy little woodpecker babies that will be helped into existence by the resonant capacities of our very own dwellings!

p.s.  If flickers are drilling holes into your house, they may be seeking food rather than noise.  In this, they rarely err–check for termites or carpenter ants.

There’s an essay about the spring habits of urban woodpeckers in my first book, Rare Encounters with Ordinary Birds.

Nice photo by Flickr user Greg7 (no pun intended).  Thanks Greg7!