Tom: Despite the occasional raccoon grunting past in the dark, I sleep better out there in the fresh air, with the sound of our pond and waterfall gurgling nearby. I usually stay up much later than Lyanda and Claire, and I love that moment when, instead of heading upstairs to bed, I head out the back door, into the cool night air, and walk through the garden under the moonlight, with the sunflowers towering over my head and the the occasional spiderweb already spun across my path.

Claire: Well, first of all, it’s really cozy in there. Plus I sleep really well on the ground. It’s also  fun when it rains because it’s about 5 times as loud in the tent. Quite meditative. But the real fun part is you can hear all the raccoons, opossums, etc., and boy they are LOUD!!! My dad is an expert sleeper, but when he hears the raccoons shaking the wind chimes above the tent, he goes crazy! It’s really funny.  The tent is just awesome!!!!!!

Lyanda: I love crawling outside at midnight (OK, because I have to pee in the grass…) and finding myself in the night world–sky, moon, stars, the rustling of night creatures, real and imagined.  It always feels new and surprising.  And, being something of an insomniac, I love that I sleep so much better out there, tucked in a big flannel sleeping bag, cool air on my face and the stars overhead.

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.

Miner’s lettuce  was named for the gold miners of the 1850s, who wisely ate it.  It’s an annual in the purslane family, and grows in various places around the country. In Seattle, we have five different varieties, the most common being Siberian miner’s lettuce.  There are two things I love about miner’s lettuce.  One is its habit of growing in moist, lush places–”fairyish” places, as Claire likes to say.  Whenever you are gathering miner’s lettuce, you are somewhere pretty.  The other thing I love is that it’s perfectly delicious.  Sweet, juicy, succulent, tastes a lot like a cucumber with an edge of wild complexity–a sort of nuttiness.  My favorite way to eat it is in nibbles along the trail, but it’s always nice to bring some home and toss it in a salad–either on its own, or mixed with garden greens.  The sweetness balances nicely with peppery arugula.  Some people cook it, but I never do. For optimal flavor, gather the leaves when they are small, and before the plants flower.

Nettles, which grow well in disturbed areas, are an urban forager’s staple.  Recently, they have become perceived as a weed to avoid, what with their habit of stinging us with their formic acid-laden prickles.  But historically they have been used for food, medicine, and fiber.  The stems can be combed apart, and spun like flax–I am hoping to learn to do that this year.

When wilted, the stinging properties are rendered harmless, but be sure to wilt them completely–when lightly steamed, our tongues can still detect the possibility of stinging, and become worried.  No one wants to worry while they eat.  That said, you can eat the leaves raw, and they are quite tasty.  Roll the edges of the leaves inward, top-side out, making a little nettle-leaf burrito.  Place it between your back teeth so it won’t unroll.  Claire loves to do this as a party trick, but she always makes me do the rolling–I should get Mama Danger Pay, but I love that she’s game for it.  Nettles are perfectly delicious–use them the way you would use any other wilted green:  braised with a bit of lemon dressing, over farro with some crumbled bleu cheese and toasted walnuts (yum), on pizza with goat cheese and foraged mushrooms, in soups, quiche, frittata…Nettles are best gathered when young, and there are still lots of smaller plants out there–bright green, and under a foot high.  They can also be steamed and frozen for winter cooking.  Make sure that you wear gloves and long sleeves when gathering and preparing!

My daughter is salad averse.  She will eat spinach cooked into a quiche or something, but prefers not to.  Still, she loves both purslane and nettles.  Part of it might be the fun of gathering these things, but she seems to really prefer the flavors.  In all foraging, there is this wonderful element of wildness, of something more complicated and interesting and delightful and nourishing than  everyday domesticated fare.  When we walk in wilder places, we nibble whatever we can along the way.  Not just the delicious stuff–huckleberries, salmonberries, thimble berries, miner’s lettuce.  But also the not-so-yummy but still-edible:  snow berries, Indian plum, just for the reminder that these foods are available if needed.  I want my daughter to feel always at-home, sustained, and nourished by wild places.

And tonight, a simple spring meal:  nettle fritatta, local asparagus, and a salad of mixed greens with miner’s lettuce.  Delish.

Here’s a nice little frittata recipe, but fritattas are a highly malleable form.  Improvise freely.

Tangled Nest Nettle Frittata

Wash about half a pound of nettles, with their stems removed.  Shake them gently, but leave some water on the leaves, stuff them into a skillet, cover, and steam over medium heat until wilted.  Turn the wilted spinach into a strainer, and press out any liquid with the back of a wooden spoon.  Set aside to cool.

In the same skillet, heat a little olive oil over medium heat, and fry one or two thinly sliced boiling potatoes.  Make sure you cook it until golden brown and tender, otherwise your frittata will be too crunchy.  Stir in a finely sliced shallot (or scallion), and cook another minute or two.  Turn onto a plate to cool.

Beat four eggs in a bowl.  Stir in about 1/2 cup feta cheese (or smoked gouda, or whatever sounds good), a pinch of salt, freshly ground pepper to taste, potatoes, and nettles.

Wipe the skillet clean, then melt a teaspoon of butter over medium heat and swirl it around to coat the sides.  Pour the egg mixture into the prepared skillet, and let it cook until the edges begin to set.  Meanwhile, heat the broiler. As the frittata continues to cook, occasionally loosen the sides with a rubber spatula, and tilt the pan so the uncooked liquid from the center moves to the sides.  Continue until the frittata is about 80% cooked, 15 minutes or so, then pop it under the broiler until the top is set, and turning golden.  So pretty!  Let it cool a bit before serving.  Enjoy.

For much much more on foraging, check out my friend Langdon Cook’s amazing blog, Fat of the Land, (starting with his recent post on miner’s lettuce), as well as his book of the same name.

Stars, moon, breeze.  Sounds sweet and calm, doesn’t it?  But it’s mayhem out there.  MAYHEM.  There are raccoons rustling, and opossums snorting, and all manner of thing grunting and wheezing,  sniffing and sneezing.  One night early in the season a raccoon climbed the cherry tree above our tent to gather the furthest reaches of the harvest–the berries we couldn’t reach on our ladder.  The tree swayed over our heads, and we could see the ringed tail hanging in the shadows.  Then the pits started falling on our tent.  They left red marks that only recently wore off after several summer rains.

Just the other night, we opened the tent door to see a small raccoon a few feet away, chewing on Tom’s shoe.  It was so close–even though the clock read 2 a.m., we woke Claire to have a look before Tom crawled out in his skivvies to chase the little thief away.

Once Claire woke me up to hear a gull in the dark of morning.  But it wasn’t a gull, I told her, it was a Western Screech-Owl (a small owl that doesn’t actually screech–its voice is sort of like a muffled bouncing ball–have a listen).  Later that day I found a screech-owl feather a block from our home, and on that same walk, just one block further, I discovered fresh coyote scat right on the sidewalk.  I have never seen one of the coyotes that inhabit the nearby green belt venture into our yard, but in the middle of the night, amidst all the noise of the urban wilds, I am always grateful we took the effort to make our chicken coop so snug and impenetrable.  And somehow, even with all the sounds and activity of the nocturnal world, I sleep better outside than I ever do in my fluffy indoor bed.

We sleep in the tent because it’s cozy and fun, of course, but also because I love being reminded that the “urban wilderness” is more than just an expression–that we live in a more-than-human world filled with creatures who have no regard for the “city limits” sign. I love knowing that Claire heads to school each morning, not only with a backpack of completed assignments, but with visions of wild creatures in the night, an owl in the morning, and stars over her dreaming head.  When we eventually do move back into the house (IF we do!), I want to remember the wild stories unfolding all around us as we sleep, even when we’re not out there in their midst.

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.

Lyanda was kind enough to let me post on The Tangled Nest.  By way of introduction, I am the author of Stories in Stone: Travels Through Urban Geology, which came out this June.  Some of you may have heard of my previous book, The Seattle Street-Smart Naturalist: Field Notes from Seattle (formerly The Street-Smart Naturalist, but that’s a long story).  This posting is part of my book blog tour, a series of stops I am making out in cyberspace.

David B. Williams showing off Seattle's Smith Tower earlier this summer.

Greetings from a fellow urban naturalist.  Like Lyanda, I believe strongly that wildness is all around us, if we take the time to observe, to linger, and to ask questions.  But because I am a little slow with the binoculars, I focus on a much easier to observe facet of nature, the geological tales told in the stones used in buildings.

Furthermore, like Lyanda, I didn’t set out to be an urban naturalist.  From 1987 to 1996, I lived in Moab, Utah.  It was Eden for a geo-geek such as myself.  I worked five years for a non-profit field school, Canyonlands Field Institute, and spent most of my time out in the red rock canyons hiking, biking, canoeing, and teaching.  During my final years in Moab, I worked as an interpretive ranger at Arches National Park.  I thought I would stay and be a naturalist in Moab for many years but when my wife decided to go to graduate school, I followed her to Boston.

I hated the first few months in beantown.  Where I had once traipsed through quiet sandstone canyons, surrounded by 1,000 foot tall cliffs of rock, I now walked through shadowy canyons created by buildings.  Where I once hiked on desolate trails, I now crossed busy streets.  The malaise that can come with living in a crowded city began to weigh on me.  For the first time in many years I felt disconnected from the natural world.

And then I noticed Boston’s buildings.  Half-billion-year old slates butted against 150,000-year-old travertines.  Sandstone that formed in Connecticut sat on top of marble that formed in Italy.  Metamorphic rocks interfingered with igneous rocks.  Fossil-rich, sea-deposited limestones juxtaposed mineral-rich, subduction-created granites.  Plus, builders had gone to the effort of cleaning and polishing these fine geologic specimens, making their stories that much easier to read.  As I began to notice the stone in buildings, I found the geologic stories that could provide the connection I had lost to wildness.

In writing Stories in Stone, I found that the geologic stories also taught me about history, architecture, and economics.  The granite used in the Bunker Hill Monument, for example, had to be hauled from a distant source, necessitating the construction of America’s first chartered, commercial railroad.  In New York and Boston, the whims of fashion, combined with the realities of weathering and erosion, gave rise to the elegant brownstone and dictated over 300 years of architectural planning.  And because Indiana’s Salem Limestone was located near major rail lines and withstood fire and that newfangled 19th century, urban product—pollution, it became the most popular building stone in the country.

As an example, I would like to focus on a stone called the Morton Gneiss. Pronounced “nice,” a gneiss is a highly metamorphosed rock, meaning it has a long history of being subjected to great pressure and temperature.

The Qwest Building in Minneapolis, originally the Northwestern Bell Telephone Building, built 1930-1932.

The Morton Gneiss is  3.5-billion-years old, the oldest building stone in the trade and probably the oldest stone that most people will ever see. When you see this swirly pink, grey, and black stone, which resembles a mixture of fudge and bubble gum, you are seeing a rock that formed around the time that life was beginning to evolve on Earth. Builders continue to use the Morton but its heyday was during the craze for Art Deco, when the gneiss provided a counterpoint to the era’s interest in machines and geometric patterns and complemented the fixation with organic forms.

These stories in stone have revealed to me the rich textures that make up the urban landscape.  They have made my chosen home of Seattle a more interesting and more enjoyable place to live.  I still love to get out in the wild places and see the grand scenery and the grand stories but I have found that living in Seattle still allows me to connect wildness.  It may take a little more effort to find the stories but they have more deeply rooted me in place.  And, as Lyanda also notes, it is much easier to get a good cup of coffee here than in the backcountry.

David blogs at Stories in Stone:  The Interfingering Between People and Rock (I was slightly alarmed by the word “interfingering,” but David assures me that this is a perfectly academic geological term),  and the complete schedule for his virtual book tour can be found there.

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.