The Vulnerability of Birds
by Julie Amato
It is late summer, nearly the end of the breeding season. The adult birds in our yard seem tired, after working hard for months to raise their young. Their weariness is accentuated by the fact that many of them are molting now, changing their old, frayed feathers for a fresh set of new ones, looking ragged and startlingly prehistoric during this transformation.
A House Finch with a dramatic striped molt pattern
Right now, the mockingbirds are thin and disheveled and look like they’ve been in a bar fight. They have spent the summer faithfully and vigorously harassing any large bird that comes near their nests, a spectacle that is exhausting for me to watch - let alone for them to execute - day after day.
Adult juncos forage in our yard, keeping their distance from the lively groups of teenage juncos that roam around together. The adults have pale patches in their normally sleek black hoods, and one bird only has white feathers left on one side of its tail. I’ve spotted a bald scrub-jay, and a crow that has lost so many feathers on its face that I can see its nostrils. The birds that are still caring for recently-fledged young – mostly finches and goldfinches – seem tired by the routine, feeding them less energetically than they did earlier in the year, eager for the kids to grow up and take care of themselves.
I may be imagining the exhaustion, but as I watch all of these birds, their vulnerability in this moment shines through.
At the same time, young birds have been showing up in our yard in large numbers. The young House Finches in particular are abundant and have a lot to say. They sample the delights of every feeder that we put out, whether it’s adapted to finches or not (don’t ever let anyone tell you that finches don’t eat suet!); they argue among each other; they splash around the bird bath, nearly emptying it each day; and they startle easily as they explore the yard. You can sense that life is still a novelty to them, and that they have much to learn.
A young Nuttall’s Woodpecker earlier this summer - its red crown feathers are located forward on the head, marking it as a juvenile
I have a concerned tenderness for all of the young birds that I observe. A young mockingbird sits, blinking, on the top of a utility pole for many long minutes, while an anxious parent perches nearby. A young oriole flies to a wire near a fig tree, eyes the plant with bright curiosity, then ventures among the leaves to sample the fruit. A young woodpecker wobbles around, trying to figure out the best toehold on our suet feeder.
There is a lot of looking and listening among young birds, a lot of inspection, a lot of experimentation – and, like a current running through it all, a lot of vulnerability. Will they learn their lessons, or will it all go awry and end badly?
A young California Scrub-Jay - the pink gape is still visible at the base of its bill
I worry about the vulnerability of birds, and what that means for their survival. Of course, some losses are natural and expected, and birds die every day from sickness, injury, and predation. Not every molting bird will escape the hawk; not every youngster will avoid accidents. Other losses, though, are not inevitable - we humans cause a lot of harm to other living things. Given the state of the world, it’s easy to view life through a dark lens, and to think that birds – as individuals, as species – won’t make it.
And yet birds’ vulnerability is a necessary part of their lives. Without the awkwardness of molt, birds would have no new, strong, beautiful feathers to buoy their flight and attract mates. Without the learning by trial and error that happens when they’re young, birds wouldn’t live long enough to carry on the work of raising the next generation. Vulnerability is a mixed bag – a required condition, both increasing and decreasing the odds of survival.
I have come to realize that what I am really grappling with is not vulnerability, but another ineluctable element of life - uncertainty. I do not know the fate of “my” backyard birds, or of birds in general. What happened to that sparrow with its leg tangled in string, which visited for several days then disappeared? What happened to the young towhees that learned how to forage for food in our yard, but haven’t shown up lately? What will happen to the birds who’ve had a disastrous breeding season this year, and to the many other species of birds whose numbers are diminishing around the world? I don’t know, and I may never know.
This not knowing is hard. It’s at the root of our collective anxiety, restless nights, and despair, when we assume the worst because we are seeking answers and our pessimism fills in the blanks. But perhaps uncertainty is also a good thing, because it allows us to keep fighting the fight to protect the birds we love, in hopes of a better future. And it allows us to choose to enjoy what we have right now.
Today, a Black-headed Grosbeak showed up at our feeders, then flew to a nearby fig tree. Grosbeaks are such a rare occurrence here that their arrival is a stop-the-presses event for us. We got out our binoculars, set up our spotting scope, and watched the bird as it hopped through the branches. Sometimes hidden by leaves, sometimes dappled by sun - its red belly glowing, its white eyebrow bright against its dark face – the bird feasted on ripe fruit. Its delight was evident.
I don’t know where this grosbeak came from, or where it will go next. I don’t know if it will visit again next year, or what will become of its kind. But in that moment, watching that bird, I felt nothing but joy.
Credits
All photos in article by Julie Amato
Banner photo: Black-headed Grosbeak, female or immature bird, by Brooke Miller