Spring unfurls at a lakefront park
WILD IN THE CITY Wild birds perform their daily domestic duties as the first burst of seasonal warmth arrives
The season of renewal seemed to arrive slower than ever this year.
While the calendar told me spring began March 20, it was hard for my bones to believe. On April 18, a wet snow fell quickly and hard, covering the cedars in our yard with such a heavy blanket that their limbs drooped to the ground. In the following weeks, many days were cold and raw and, as many of our winter ducks were still diving for fish at the bay near our home, it was hard to believe that spring was coming.
But one afternoon this month, “the sun was splitting the stones,” as my dear departed father-in-law would say, using an old Irish expression reserved for the brightest of sunshiny weather. It was warm enough for me to ditch my fulllength down coat for a light jacket, and a perfect opportunity to see what early migrants might be passing through our area on their way north.
At a park in my neighbourhood near Toronto’s eastern waterfront, the sky was a heavenly blue and only the slightest breeze ruffled the newly greening trees, carrying with it the earthy scent of warming mud. Tender leaves the colour of chartreuse liqueur were just beginning to burst from their buds and unfurl. I could feel the sun’s warming rays on my shoulders, a heaven-sent touch, and I was struck anew with the yearly miracle that is spring.
As I wandered on the footpaths through the park, I caught a glimpse of a large, rusty-brown bird with a very long tail. It was thrashing about in some shrubbery beside a pond, stabbing at the duff on the ground with its stout, decurved beak, looking for tasty tidbits to eat — an insect, caterpillar or worm, perhaps. The bird’s white breast was heavily marked with what looked like dark brown arrowheads, and now and then I could see the gleam of one of its bright yellow eyes.
It was no challenge to ID this bird: brown and thrashing, it could only be, well, a brown thrasher. They’re members of the mimid family that includes mockingbirds and catbirds and, as their name suggests, they’re talented vocalists, able to mimic the songs of many other birds. Some members of the family have repertoires that may include more than a thousand songs. When singing, the brown thrasher typically repeats each song in its stock of tunes twice; northern mockingbirds, on the other hand, repeat theirs thrice.
Seeing the thrasher sent a frisson of excitement through my nervous system. I’m not sure why, exactly, but this is one of my favourite birds. Perhaps it’s their oddly severe expressions. I picture them wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses perched at the end of their black beaks, peering over them with thinly veiled suspicion, like the stern nuns who taught my husband, Peter, when he was young.
As I observed the thrasher, a clear whistle pierced my concentration.
“Drink-your-tee-eee-eee-eee. Drink-your-tee-eee-eee-eee. Drinkyour-tee-eee-eee-eee.” An eastern towhee had arrived in the bushes. I looked for the bird demanding me to drink up but couldn’t see it. It vanished almost as soon as it arrived.
I’ve loved eastern towhees for years and was disappointed not to see this one. They’re large members of the sparrow family, but they’re no little brown birdies! Males wear a topcoat and hood of the blackest velvet over their bright white bellies. But it’s their striking flank feathers the colour of ripe persimmons that gave them their former name, rufous-sided towhee.
Like brown thrashers, towhees forage on the forest floor, rustling in the leaves as they rummage in the underbrush. They have a distinctive technique some call the towhee two-step or the scratch-hop. The manoeuvre involves hopping forward with both feet, then hopping backward. In the second step, as they’re airborne, they scratch at the leaves with both feet at the same time.
After giving up my quest to find the towhee, I sat down on a park bench to enjoy the sun and make mental notes. In every tree, shrub and patch of reeds within my field of view there was a bird going about its domestic duties. Across the path, a tangle of house sparrows quarrelled in some bushes. From the highest branch of a nearby tree, the song of a male cardinal carried clearly. He was advertising for a mate or making sure all comers knew the boundaries of his territory. Across the way, a robin hopped along the muddy edge of the stormwater management pond, carrying in its beak a slight twig destined for its nest. There were a few migrants around, too, including a yellow warbler. These birds, which have allover feathers the colour of a gold neon highlighter, are beloved for their pleasing song that enlivens all our wild spaces each spring. They sing “sweet, sweet, sweet, I’m so sweet” tirelessly from their perch high in a tree well into summer.
As I took in the scene, two fellow birders I’ve met a few times on local trails stopped by to chat. As bird lovers do, we talked about what species we’d seen. Candace, who seems to get out every day for a good wander, had a migrating pine warbler on her list.
After Candace left to search for more birds, Janina hung back. We spoke of our luck to live by the shores of a Great Lake near one of our city’s many waterfront parks. We spoke of being grateful to get glimpses into the lives of the nonhuman creatures that live here all year or pass through on their way somewhere else. We spoke of the spiritual rebirth that spring brings and how difficult it is to put our feelings into words without slipping into clichés.
American journalist and publisher W. Earl Hall captured the sentiment this way. “Science has never drummed up quite as effective a tranquilizing agent as a sunny spring day,” he wrote.
I’d amend that to add “a sunny spring day full of chirruping birdies.”