WITH DON KNOWLER
I had a rare interaction with my resident house sparrows last month when I had to beep the horn to prevent them being squashed under the wheels of my car.
The sparrows use the crushed mudstone of my drive as a dust bath and never bother to move as I come and go on foot, knowing I’ll give them space and respect. The car, though, is a different matter and although sparrows have no doubt over the eons learnt to recognise friend and foe among humans, the car clearly presents a danger they have not yet come to grips with.
Sparrows have been around humans for thousands of years, our lives entwined since the dawn of time. They are so familiar we hardly notice them even though in my case it’s as though they actually live in the house with me. At dawn I awake to their noisy conversation beyond my bedroom window, as cheep answers cheep. Making my first cup of coffee, I have a grandstand view of them from the kitchen, squabbling either on the drive, or in the garden.
Familiarity doesn’t exactly breed contempt, but my mind hardly registers these sparrow antics, as it does the call and sight of visiting native birds, like green rosellas and yellow-throated honeyeaters.
But this changed last month when I saw beaks probing cracks in the sandstone wall holding the drive, finding something to eat there. I went to investigate and could only find clumps of moss, but perhaps seeds had somehow become wedged in the cracks. It got me thinking, however, how the seed-eating sparrows survive in the winter months when food is so scarce.
As those who toss bread to sparrows will attest, they are great survivors and have a long history of making do, even in the harshest of circumstances. As humans evolved from hunter-gatherers into animal herders and farmers, the humble sparrow soon discovered that the first fields of cultivated crops established around the Mediterranean were a source of rich pickings. As agriculture spread into northern Europe, so did the sparrows.
And as Europeans went on to colonise far-flung places, including Australia, the sparrow went with them, introduced largely to remind the settlers of home, and for supposed insect control – although insects are not a main part of their diet.
Sparrows traditionally do not have a song to sing about but these cheeps, chirps and chirrups, which combine both song and contact call, seem human-like to me as a means of exchanging dialogue.
Tragically, in recent years the sparrow’s association with humans has come at a cost. In the early part of the 21st century sparrow populations were found to fall sharply in the cities of Europe and Passer domesticus was listed as endangered. Car fumes are believed to be killing insects on which sparrows feed their young in spring, to provide protein for growing bodies.
After thousands of years, the sparrow – or its silence – is finally being noticed.