For a moment, in my mind’s eye the scene resembled something like this, Brian Froud’s painting of a similar tangle:

In the introduction to  the new deluxe edition of the classic book Faeries that Froud created with Alan Lee, Froud writes that the book is, “a reminder of a world we all once lived in, when we had a connection to the earth itself. It presents faeries as they are:  the spiritual personifications of the hidden as aspects of the world’s workings…They try to remind us of our emotional and physical ties to nature and to one another. They are the keepers of natural wisdom, and we dismiss them at our own peril.”

I love this notion–faeries as personifications of our own innate sense of continuity with the natural world. In this light, I wish you many Faerie visitations (call them what you will!) during this beautiful season of winter-into-spring.

(For more on the earthen complexities of the Faerie realm, see my essay, “The Thrush and the Faerie,” in my first book Rare Encounters with Ordinary Birds.)

We call this male Anna’s hummingbird “Old Man.”  He sits on a branch by the feeder on our porch, eats, then sits some more, as if on a park bench, watching the world go by.
The other day I stepped out to gather the mail, and was hit with a barrage of crow scolding.  There was a squirrel sitting on a branch near the crows, but surely that couldn’t have been the problem?  No, in fact the squirrel itself was scolding something.  Even a little Anna’s hummingbird was upset.  I felt very unobservant when I finally looked down to notice, almost right at my feet, the young raccoon that was exploring my front yard.  When I said “hello,” he looked up at me, came closer, and looked up some more.  The spell was broken when my cat Delilah got out, and I ran to get her (I had no worries that this little raccoon would hurt my cat, but Delilah is not supposed to go out!).  It is a common myth that raccoons seen during the day are rabid; here in the Pacific Northwest there is no rabies (except very rarely in bats–never in squirrels, raccoons, etc.), and there are all kinds of reasons raccoons might be out in daylight.  In summer and autumn, adult female raccoons will be out all day seeking food for their young of the year, either alone, or with the baby raccoons.  And adolescent raccoons, who are inexperienced and so have a harder time feeding themselves, are often out alone in daylight, but especially in winter when meals are more difficult to come by.  Distracted by Delilah’s escape, I didn’t manage to get this fuzzy iphone photo until the raccon was loping away, and under the fence into the backyard where my chickens were running loose!–locking them up was my next stop, but by that time he had completely disappeared, as raccoons do…

Who is visiting your urban-wild home these winter days?

Female Varied Thrush

Thank you Flickr users Lynette S, and rogerwshaw!

I’ve talked a little about the new manuscript I’m working on–an urban bestiary.  As part of this project, I’ve been studying urban squirrels in depth.  I don’t feed birds much, but I do keep a tiny sunflower seed feeder suctioned to my study window just above the window box, which brings chickadees, nuthatches, and finches within inches of my face as I write.  I love it.  Naturally a squirrel began to visit the feeder, and I chased him away by knocking on the window.  But during the height of my squirrel study, I stopped discouraging the persistent squirrel, so as he raided the sunflower stash I could observe and sketch his habits and physical characters at great length and in amazing detail.  He also liked sipping the nectar from my window hummingbird feeder.  I got to sketch a squirrel tongue!  That was well enough, and I should have stopped there.  But though I strongly advise against such taming in my book, I rationalized that “purely for research,” I would try feeding this squirrel, who by this time I had named Worthington, unsalted peanuts through a crack in my study window.  One day I heard Claire scream from upstairs–”Worthington’s on your desk!!!”  He was sitting there, she reported, nonchalantly eating the peanuts I kept in a little bowl.  Later, Tom caught him in the act with his Canon.

What a terrible squirrel!  I am no longer feeding Worthington…

The main reason I advise against the time-honored tradition of taming squirrels is that bold squirrels, habituated to being hand-fed by humans, can frighten some people and children in our neighborhoods, increasing perceived human-wild conflict.  It’s also a good way to get a squirrel-bite.  Though they are relatively uncommon, nearly 100% of squirrel bites that do occur happen during an attempt at hand-feeding.  Squirrels do not bite the hand that feeds them out of aggression, but in error.  Think about it–squirrels are prey animals, and like many prey animals (robins, snipe, rabbits, mice…), their eyes are on the sides of their head, providing good peripheral vision (to see the hawk or coyote swooping in from behind), but poor binocular vision.  A squirrel’s vision is at it’s worst when attempting to focus on something right in front of its nose.  And have you looked at a peanut?  They look very much like a human finger, right down to the “knuckle” in the middle of the shell.

The nest they found in a corner of our roof is made almost entirely of mosses, refuse, and chicken feathers from our backyard.

Then a second message: “Well, we made a house for the little birds so they wouldn’t die in the sun, and put it on your house, close to where the nest was.  It’s not a very good house because we didn’t have proper materials, so I’m sorry about that.”  I smiled at the thoughtfulness of the roofers, and wondered just how horrible this ramshackle birdhouse was going to be.  But when I got home, this is what I found:

How cute is that?  It is neatly made with a leather hinge to open the box, and a perch for the parent birds.  Here’s a photo the roofers took while transferring the nest:

How good of them to take time out of the hot day, and their busy job to take care of these birds.  The nestlings are, of course, House Sparrows, sometimes called English Sparrows, an introduced species, an urban invasive, and one of the most ecologically despised of all North American birds.  Bluebird advocates in particular hate the sparrows for attacking bluebirds and evicting them from their nests, and recommend lethal control for the sparrows.  One intrepid elder in the movement catches them in a live trap, then cuts their heads off with her kitchen scissors.

I myself would never consider lethal control for a bird that has already been born, especially one that has made itself part of my household, invited or not.  I DO think we should remove nests and eggs of House Sparrows and starlings when we find them, and cover any inviting crevices.  The birds will attempt to re-nest several times after their nests/eggs are removed, but we can do our best.  Once the young are with us, though, they provide a good opportunity for the study of fledgling birds and parental care, as I wrote in a previous post.  Ecological disastrousness aside, the House Sparrow is an interesting bird with relatively complex social behavior, and both the male and female are devoted parents.  We can study them closely without worrying about disturbance as we might with a more sensitive, native species.

Claire studies a House Sparrow chick before returning it to its nest. Adult birds will not abandon young that have been handled by humans.

Curiously, while writing this post, a juvenile Cooper’s Hawk turned up on the wire beyond my study window.  He looks skinny, and autumn is a difficult, hungry time for hatch-year hawks.  Cooper’s are accipiters–bird eating hawks. Maybe he’ll catch one of the House Sparrows!

Meanwhile, I love our roofers.  What an inspiration to see such thoughtful care for wild things, even House Sparrows, even on a hot busy day, 20 feet off the ground.

P.S.  Alfa Roofing also did a great job on our roof!

Many many thanks.

With a hat and a fire in the fire bowl,  I can be out with pen, paper, mixed feeding flocks of autumn birds, Esmeralada and all the other chickens, wind, weather, spiders, and–well, you get the idea.  And of course I am not above s’mores for lunch.

I knit the hat in the photo with scraps of yarn leftover from a sweater.  I like it, but Tom says it makes me look like the guys in the cartoon:

Akbar and Jeff from Simpsons creator Matt Groening's comic strip Life in Hell.

Ah, well.  In my Autumn Study I  find myself growing a deeper appreciation for the quiet fall garden.  We  have lots of arugula and other greens growing, carrots, broccoli–the usual northwest wintery fare.

I have a friend who will only plant veggies that promise a high ROI–Return On Investment!  Hence, only items that are pricey at the market are worth all the trouble–tomatoes, basil, fancy greens.  He has a point–gardening is not always cost-effective.  But even though onions are cheap, I went to Whitman College, and love growing these beautiful, tasty Walla Walla sweets:

Some of the beds are going to sleep for the winter.  When cleaning out the chicken coop, I layer the chicken-poopy nitrogen-rich coffee chaff we use as coop bedding directly on the garden.  It composts over the winter, and will be ready for spring tomatoes.

The garden might be soggy but this is, to my mind, the most beautiful of seasons, and I’m glad the impulse to rethink office space hit me.  Our internet reaches clear to the neighbor’s house, and this post was composed outside, by the fire.

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, walk through the area waving your arms slowly over your head, or 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.