It is almost dawn and there is a shift in the activity around the bird feeder. The dusky coloured meadow vole, who had been pilfering millet seeds, skulks back into his icy tunnel, thus avoiding any early morning predators.
A screech owl, sitting in the nearby old apple tree, blinks a few times as if trying to stay awake; he's been stationed here for quite a while, but with the departure of the vole the owl's need for sleep is overcoming his need for food.
As the sun breaks over the distant treeline, a blue-grey aura of reflected light accents the plumage of the dawn patrol. Dressed in parade blues, the jays swing in to inspect the feeders. These are the pompous officials of the feeder area — nobody eats without their permission! Landing heavily on the overhanging branches, they shout their raucous decrees before delving into the sunflower seeds.
Next to arrive at the feeding station is a party of quarrelling socialites, the gaudily outfitted evening grosbeaks. While the 'women folk' quietly feed within the periphery of the strewn seeds, 'the boys' like to mix it up a bit, smack dab in the middle of the feeder!
Food is all but forgotten in their attempts to out-push, out-shout and out-bully each other. However, their look-at-me shenanigans go largely unnoticed by the others who are present.
About the time 'the boys' have finished spreading seeds over most of the sideyard, along come the local kids. These bundles of delight are, of course, the chickadees. Their bright eyes, curious nature and unabashed naivety allow them to dart in, pick a seed and return to a resting spot virtually unnoticed.
The jays and grosbeaks are so busy throwing accusations at each other they pay no heed to these flitting little birds.
When the boisterous ones depart in their small groups, the feeder becomes a place of calm once more. And in fitting with this attitude comes a mourning dove. She is a combination of street-smart and earth-mother, the demur markings on her feathers a sign of self-worth — neither overdone nor understated, she knows exactly who she is.
As she quietly feeds, no one bothers her. Should a young and brash blue jay land nearby in an attempt to shoo her, a solemn stare from the dove relates the message, "I'll move when I'm done. For now, leave me in peace."
Unfortunately, a pair of rough hoodlums manage to stop by each morning about now, and today one drops down on the feeder with a careless thump and bump, startling the dove into departure.
While this black squirrel noses about with anxious movements, his buddy acts as lookout in the branches above. Should I or one of our cats appear, a warning 'chuck-chuck-chuck' alerts the first to vamoose, and fast.
Although the sun is now well above the horizon, it is obscured by an opaque layer of heavy cloud. The world outside my window has turned a depressing grey, which is most fitting for the 'safety in numbers' gang.
Murmuring amongst themselves and casting furtive glances about, the silver-studded black-jacketed starlings move in for their turn. Picking about the leftovers on the ground they curse the early birds for not leaving them enough. If birds could smoke, I think the tough-guy image of the starlings would be complete.
In contrast to the sulky gang on the ground comes another visitor, circling headfirst down and around the tree trunk. The dapper and bustling white-breasted nuthatch inspects every crack for hidden or temporarily forgotten seeds. "Ho-ho, What's this? Oh rot, just a shell. Hm-mm, what's here? Ah-ha, a bug!" And so he goes, very business-like, yet chipper, in his manner.
I always chuckle at the woodpeckers, as the larger hairy seems to ignore the little downy, who wants so much to be just like her big cousin. Mimicking her dress, her feeding style, even some of her calls, the downy just doesn't have the presence or the pizzazz of the hairy.
Coyly watching from a nearby maple, little downy dreams of the day when she might command the time spent on the suet feeder; a wistful dream, but she seems willing to bide her time.
And finally, as if they have just discovered the feeder for the first time, come two of our cats. They sit at the base of the feeder pole, looking a bit miffed that a bird or two doesn't just drop down to say "hello."
They try to camouflage their orange furred bodies in the white snow. Nope, no luck. They try to conceal themselves behind the posts of the nearby deck. Nope, too far away.
To save the cats further embarrassment I usually open and then close the side door with a bang, which sends the cats running for their food dish. In doing so, I give them the excuse that it was I who scared the birds away and, heck, the only thing left to do is go eat some kibble.
By evening (which these days seems to be in late afternoon) the feeders are empty and the daily trek outside must be made to fill them, yet again. In the gathering darkness I notice a small owl alight in the old apple tree, and wonder what brings him to this quiet feeding area.
