There
are eleven chick-a-dees near the tube feeders this morning, either perched in
front of an opening to extract seed or waiting patiently on the crook of the
pole for a space to open. The ground beneath is too crowded with the return of
the juncos in full measure, where a dozen or so mill about quickly.
An
arctic blast of air has increased the activity, where the birds are simply
desperate to forage as quickly as possible the moment the gloaming light of
morning arrives. I read a study that suggests chick-a-dees will spend nearly
the entire waking day on these frigid periods collecting seed, having to
consume enough high-energy fare simply to allow them stores to last through the
dark stretch of the night. It is the most raw cut of survival we witness where
the frenetic pace at the tube provides our own watching pleasure.
When I
step outside they rapidly depart to the pines in the berm or in the access
border, only to return shortly, alighting on the reaching branches of the maple
to measure my intent. It’s impossible not to love these gregarious little
birds, who give their quizzical squawk and pip with a slightly tilted head and
beady black eye. They regard us all with an air of familiarity or recognition
before flying down to the feeder again.
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