And the Songbirds are Singing
The welcome I received on moving to the New York City suburbs was at the hands of three raccoons dancing on our bedroom roof in the middle of the night. I banged on the ceiling, a response that seemed to increase their dance step. Finally, I went outside with a large flashlight and chased them away. They slithered down thin trees on the far side of the house. In the morning I noticed huge piles of raccoon skat under a window ledge. The trees were the next to go.
I had lived earlier on a farm in Pennsylvania and was quite accustomed to animal visits at any time of day or night. Groundhogs tended to arrive after the sun had warmed the entrance to their den. Once awake, they particularly liked chewing on wooden porch furniture and sometimes the porch woodwork itself. Sadly, I had a shoot a few and the rest of the tribe seemed to get the message.
Once in the New York suburbs I discovered that our Rockland County groundhogs seemed to be as mischievous as their Pennsylvania brethren. I had read sprinkling dried fox urine along the perimeters of the property would act as a deterrent but it had no effect. Then I went to the local animal control office and the woman I spoke with said I would have to use a “Have-a-Heart” trap to capture the animal. Then animal control would take it to some quiet place in the country. I soon realized that this was not simply a case of parking a trap near a hole. There was actually a groundhog menu to entice the animal into the cage, including cantaloupe and romaine lettuce with chocolate sprinkles. This seemed a little odd but I followed the science, covered the trap with canvas and waited. The next morning, I approached the trap and heard an animal moving around inside. I crawled closer, lifted the canvas and got sprayed by a skunk right between the eyes. It reminded me of my bout with tear gas at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center — only worse.
Since I was commuting to NYC and traveling a fair bit internationally, I didn’t really develop an understanding and appreciation for all the animals and birds that roamed the property until my family was sequestered during the pandemic. For the last couple of years, we’ve been planting lots of arborvitae and fruit trees, creating something of an enclave and sanctuary. I noticed in particular the appearance over the months of a wide variety of songbirds. But it wasn’t until the lockdown that the landscape really came alive for me.
It was sometime in mid-April that I noticed a red fox “scouting” the property at first light, sometimes in a clockwise direction, sometimes counterclockwise. The fox would frequently mark the property with its urine. The animal stayed on the periphery, darting in and out of trees, as if it was playing hide-and-seek. As time went on it took in a wider swath, including neighbors’ properties surrounding us. The fox would jump often, as if at play, or arching above its prey. I saw it chase birds, chipmunks and rabbits, though I’m not certain of the outcome. As the summer progressed, we let the grass grow and the fox would disappear into that greenery. For more than a month I could set my watch by the fox, then it dropped out of sight. I thought of mythology and children’s books and reflected on the fox as a shape-shifter, becoming what it wanted to be.
The groundhogs and I have found a kind of détente. I watch more than chase. Recently I looked out of a bathroom window and saw a groundhog apparently sharpening its teeth on an iron spike that secured a downspout. I must have watched for five minutes, trying to understand the animal science involved. Was it just about a battle plan, sharpening the teeth? Was this creature planning some adventurous digging in our rock-strewn neighborhood? (They don’t call it Rockland for nothing.)
The deer still come in droves following a pathway that seems in their DNA. They eat a few plants and move on. We’ve largely planted deer-resistant vegetation so the damage is minor. Chipmunks seemed to be everywhere, perhaps because we are seeing fewer hawks in the area, though an eagle stops by on occasion for lunch. Even a bald eagle once. Now I see on a regular basis a half-dozen chipmunks darting through the grass in column formation, zig-zagging in martial order. They are quick as lightning and soon disappear into the underbrush. I let it go.
Perhaps the most telling garden development during the pandemic is the increase in the number of birds in our garden, helped we’re sure by the new trees, shrubbery and feeders. The birds have added another dimension to the day that starts sharply at sunrise with the sounds of the call of a red-headed woodpecker drumming on the surface of a few dead trees we have left for the occasion. On one such occasion I was outside shoveling black mulch and I could see and hear the red-headed woodpecker in an oak tree above my head. It was a little surreal. I thought I was hearing a Morse Code message from my Navy days; ZWC, a personal message to follow. I laughed that the woodpecker would invoke in me that ancient signaling science and I behaved as a proper student, projecting my memories and fancies into that tree space. I do love the morning sounds of the woodpecker, that sharp call of “Reveille.” This was a personal message after all.
But it’s the birds, especially songbirds, that have transformed the place and provided a kind of peace. Almost every morning I hear a song sparrow deliver a kind of three tweet rhapsody that I try to repeat again and again, as the bird moves around the perimeter, until my lips are dry and I can not longer wet my whistle. The song sparrow sent me back inside, wanting.
It has crossed my family’s mind that the birds might own the place. A variety of birds always seemed to be parked at or near the front door. Occasionally, a song bird or one of its brethren gets into the house and we put on our soft gloves and soft music and find a way to coax our visitor through the door. During the height of the pandemic we were hearing sounds from a Christmas wreath attached to our front door. We soon learned that there were at least six chicks in the wreath, fed at an astounding frequency by what appeared to be a house wren. We knew the routine, which meant leaving the house through the garage, sometimes through a window or at the very least at a deep bend as we escaped under the bird nest. We hated to see them go.
Bird sounds seems to be always inside or outside our house and often we can’t tell the difference. Days before writing this I had been spreading nine cubic yards of black mulch around the place and was in and out of the house on multiple occasions. Once permanently back inside, I heard sounds of a bird in distress. At first, I thought the outside world was talking to me again. The house is surrounded by nests and it’s sometimes difficult to determine where sounds are coming from. All the windows remained open, so I assumed birds were on the march. But the sounds that moved as I entered and left rooms seemed more urgent. I sat down in the living room to assess the situation and heard a baleful sound coming from underneath a radiator. I saw what looked like a song sparrow attached to a glue trap placed to capture insects that might migrate up from the basement, especially from the well house that anchors the main house.
The sparrow was still alive but its legs were held by the glue, as if in cement. I covered the sparrow with a cloth and took it outside, spending more than an hour trying to release its legs from the glue without injuring the bird. I applied natural agents, trying to decrease the efficacy of the glue without success. I tried relentlessly to release the bird’s legs from the glue but failed. At times the sparrow would learn over as if it was dead but returned to the fight. By now I was keeping a close eye on the sparrow’s eyes, until they were shut, signaling the battle was over. I waited another hour with the sparrow and the glue trap in my lap, just to be sure. I spoke to the bird as if it were my child. I prayed for the bird as if it was human. Then I took the sparrow to a garden bed and buried it under a sea of mulch. I remain full of sorrow and regret.
The bard owl, absent for a spell, has returned with its series of hoots that sound something like, “Who cooks for you,” taking us from the darkness into the morning where the songbirds return, like a chorus, reminding me where the soul resides.
