Sunday morning ornithology

I was hurrying back from an errand this morning to get ready to go for brunch with a friend - a rare enough occurrence for me here in Hades - when material started raining down on me as I drew near to our house. I thought I heard some of it splat and starting checking my clothes for bird splotches. Glancing down at the pavement, I saw chips and chunks of wood.

I retraced my steps, following a rapping sound and peered up into the branches of one of the maples, which is always the first to change colour and hence, lose its leaves.
This meant I had an unobstructed view of a pileated woodpecker. I see them every couple of years in this neighbourhood, if I'm paying attention, and if the foliage doesn't hide them.

A fellow backed into the driveway in front of me, and baffled, remained in his truck, evidently wondering what I was doing in front of his house, smack in the middle of the sidewalk. My right-hand neighbour approached me, smiling in a rather puzzled fashion. I showed her where to look, and the driver was now staring at her, as she walked around his truck and gazed upward. As I set off, I could hear her explaining, while she took some snaps of her own.

Snow birds?

I don't know why Ottawans are so indignant when it snows in April.  It snows every damn April, often in late April.  It is a bit depressing, of course -- this morning, I was noting that with a very few exceptions, the worst of the glaciers had retreated from the front yards.  Now, I look out the front door and it's as if we have been hurled back in time.

The birds on the back deck seem to be taking it in stride.  Well, flutter.  They're buzzing around the feeder like bees, some "nesting" in the accumulated snow on the deck railing, resting up to battle the others for seed.

I believe these are pine siskins.  There is one chubby adolescent, who seems disinclined to join the struggle.  He's bedded in the snow drift, trying to look cute enough to feed.  Typical.

Clickingbirds

Hummingbird, a photo by ngawangchodron on Flickr.

"Hummingbirds" is a misnomer. The Anna's Hummingbirds that cluster in the ancient branches of one of the apple trees at this summer's house-sit don't hum, they whir, like something between a very small engine and a very large insect.

They also chirrup as they zoom high into the air, usually in pairs.

For days, I've been wondering what the clicking sound has been in the backyard, the sound of a distant old-fashioned typewriter. Last night, I was down by the compost, frantically harvesting the last of the raspberries which will vanish with July. I heard that surprisingly deep thrum, and looked up as a hummingbird whizzed past my left ear in a streak of green. It hung above my head, sliding sideways every few seconds as if it were a bead on an invisible abacus.

I've watched them through windows for many years here in Victoria, yet this was the first time that I realized: hummingbirds click.