 I just don't know where they go this time of the year. I hear them
all around, but I don't
see them. The blue jays scream from high in the tree crowns. The
redbelly woodpecker shouts his hillybilly twang. Robins bark from
somewhere. They are gone. Even the ubiquitous house finches are missing.
It's the molting time of year. Their feathers fall off until their heads
are black and they appear as if a fire victim.
Then they go away. Yet they don't go away. They hide. For several
weeks in the early autumn, the birds can be heard but not seen. They are
hiding at this time when they are
most vulnerable to the elements and disease. Even with the feeders fully
stocked, there
are no visitors.Just now in Autumn they begin their return.  Two beautiful blue jays flew to the seed-laden deck rail. Their
feathers were as fresh
as a sky on a September day. I smile and call my husband to see. "They
look really pretty,"
he tells me, "Haven't seem them in a while." It's as if they sent their
feathers out for a complete cleaning. A cardinal family clicks in during the early evening and I'm
surprised at the beauty of their plumage. These guys really suffer
during the molt. Many of them appeared to have stuck
their head in an oven and lit a match. Now they glow with a brilliant
red, soon to contrast beautifully with the winter snows. Of course, they
are now busy fighting for winter territories. Cardinals do nothing to
alleviate the popular conception of redheads as hotheads. Even the mallards were suffering some sort of severe molting
handicap that, at times,
had me wondering if they were even avian. They too are returning,
freshly laundered in brilliant greens and distinctive markings. One
mallard family swims down the cove and
brings a few geese along. The geese feathers are a new white. They are
returning to the
cove waters with shiny new coats that will protect them in the cold to
come. Finally I hear the chitter that excites me every fall. Only it's
two staccato calls that echo throughout the cove and I'm forced to leave
my computer to ascertain just what the fuss is about. TWO handsome
kingfishers are fighting for winter territory. I'm captured for over a
half hour by their arguments. One fellow perches atop my boat pavilion
and rattles a convincing debate as to just why this cove and these
minnows should be his. The other guy rebuts from across the cove that he
too would like to enjoy the tiny fish in these cove waters that never
freeze during the winter months. The kingfishers like it here. There
are always minnows when even the mighty Chesapeake Bay proper is frozen
solid. But only one bird
is allowed, it would seem from the kingfisher debates. One of them
evidently convinced the other of his intent, for one small kingfisher
bird baron can be seen diving from the boat pavilion to snatch minnows
with no bother from his former competitor. The chickadees and titmouses have been here right along. Or maybe
not. Perhaps because they are so small, their annual molt does not take
as long.I've missed the other birds but am quite happy to see them return wearing the latest winter bird fashions. ... Patricia Fish |
