The Big Yard: Notes from a Pajama Birdwatcher
February 21, 2024
My neighbor, Lucifer’s Mistress, sends me a text: “Female rufous confirmed.”
Yesterday, I had asked her where they all were, the rufous hummingbirds, since my records show the previous first sightings from early February. She wanted to know if anyone in the county was reporting them, and I mentioned the nice male I’d seen visiting the feeders at the Paton Center for Hummingbirds in Patagonia, the next county over.
Then, today: “Ask and ye shall receive. First male rufous. Really. Also looking to confirm a female???”
A male and a female? I leave the laptop and my desk and head for the yard.
Gusting winds sway the feeders and knock thirsty honeybees from the ports. The sun is bright and warm on my legs. Tiny shoots of green unfurl from bare chokecherry stems. The world leans forward into spring, and I imagine a wave of whirring rusty bodies rushing north from deep coastal Mexico with beaks pointed toward nests in British Columbia and southern Alaska. A pathway that will take the birds through the yard.
Migration. Rufous hummingbirds signal a mighty change of birds. Hummingbirds for sparrows and juncos. Warblers and flycatchers for sapsuckers and flickers.
The best I can report is the return of the Lincoln’s sparrows, visitors I normally see all winter but haven’t since November. The Anna’s hummingbirds have bumped up in numbers, the pair from winter joined by a second pair. The feisty males chase each other—and the females—from the feeders, although I’ve set out four of them.
I’m about to give up. I need to pack. Tomorrow, after my writing workshop in Tucson, I leave for Flagstaff to join my youngest daughter, the son-in-law, and their friend Ashley (Damnation Spring) for a few days of backpacking in the Grand Canyon. There will be more construction plans for the Big Yard, discussions about books, those forthcoming and those already in the world, but mostly there will be our immersion in the flung-open pages of the planet’s geologic history. And a wild river I will brave with my fly rod.
But then, when I turn my head toward the farthest feeder, a blur and flash of liquid copper. I can hardly believe it. A male rufous hummingbird grants a wish.
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Here in Northern Vermont it is way too early to even contemplate the ‘real’ spring. We have a seasonal camp near the Canadian border. Every spring season, the hummingbirds ‘tell’ us , with very little patience , that it is about time we hang the feeder. Short of knocking on the window, he hovers about a foot away, as if looking through the window to find one of us and ask, ‘could you hurry it up please “ . I am sure this is exactly what he’s doing. I have had the privilege of standing two feet away from our deck feeder, as up to four sparkling ruby throated hummingbirds take turns for the prime spot . I should say, defending their territory. And me, I just stand there motionless, with a big smile.
Thank you for introducing me to your ‘backyard’ wonders. Your photographs are just gorgeous.
And yes, I can stand there in my pj’s.
Your hummingbirds are just amazing! I’m seeing signs of spring here too. Many trees are starting to bud. Snow geese and greater white fronted keys have been passing through. Yesterday there were eight trumpeter swans on the other side of the lake that took off at sunrise going north. It’s so warm here I’ve had my windows open every day to keep it cool enough in my house. Already seeing gnats and mosquitoes . That is not a good sign for summer!