Red in Tooth and Claw

I don’t have any pictures, but I can’t get the vision out of my mind—a solitary bluebird huddled in the snow, head tucked into breast, feathers fluffed, shivering. I thought I was watching adaptation, but I later realized I was probably witnessing the process of dying. Birds do use all of the mechanisms I saw in order to maintain and raise body temperature, but shivering is only a temporary solution, taking an inordinate amount of energy. This unsheltered bluebird had few remaining resources as the temperatures dropped that night.

The next day, after the final night of the storm, I found two dead birds, and my friends reported others. Initially, I thought the cold caused the mortality, but slowly I realized that these birds died primarily of starvation. Because the insects they eat became inactive, the birds lacked the energy they needed to survive.

My favorite Website about birds, that I'm always citing, reports that even hummingbirds can survive freezing temperatures as long as there is food available. Spring may appear to be a season of abundance, but especially in a climate like Colorado’s, where drastic fluctuations in weather occur, it remains important to leave out birdfeeders while energy requirements are high and food can be scarce. 

Hummingbird Garden

As I’m beginning to think about planting a garden for this summer, I’m considering two factors—how to plant for drought conditions and how to attract hummingbirds. Luckily, my two desires intersect, because drought-tolerant plants are often beneficial to wildlife. So, what can I plant here in northeastern Colorado, which is a semi-arid climate? In an article on the Hummingbird Garden in Colorado Springs, the director of the garden recommends Bee balm (Monarda), California fuchsia (Zauschneria californica), Cardinal flower (Lobelia), Catmint (Nepeta), Columbine (Aquilegia), Delphinium (Delphinium), Firecracker penstemon (Penstemon eatonii), Pineleaf penstemon (Penstemon pinifolious), Fireweed (Epilobium angustifolium), Garden phlox (Phlox), Honeysuckle (Lonicera), Indian paintbrush (Castilleja integra), Maltese cross (Lychnis), Salvia (Salvia), Spider flower (Cleome), Sunset hyssop (Agastache rupestris). It’s my understanding that all of these are drought tolerant, with the exception of the Delphinium.

While I was thinking about hummingbirds, I received an email from Audubon, asking for participation in a citizen-scientist hummingbird study. This project couldn’t be better suited for the urban naturalist. You can sit in your chair with your morning coffee or tea and gather information for this study that helps hummingbirds. There’s even a smart phone app that you can use to enter your data.

Hummingbirds have such high metabolisms that they can starve to death within hours. So, I decided to buy a hummingbird feeder. I purchased one on Saturday as a birthday present for myself, and now we’re having a blizzard.

What’s in a Name, or Muscari armeniacum

I’m confused about the potential depth of my blossoming relationship with local flora. I understand that gardens form an important component of urban nature, and that they can also attract more nature in the form of birds, butterflies, and other insects. But, all I knew about the grape hyacinths my husband planted along our gateway path was that I liked them. This flower appears early—good for the impatient naturalist (see earlier post)—, grows well in difficult conditions, and smells good (although, really, am I going to kneel down on the cold concrete to smell them? And, we have too few to use as cut flowers.). Then things got more difficult. When I began researching them, I ran into orders, families, species, and genera, which made me wonder exactly what’s in a name? I’ve been content to ignore the larger implications of studying plants. Do I need to know the scientific name of the chokecherry tree, for example, to know that birds forage the berries? I want to know the function of plants, shrubs, and trees, especially in relation to wildlife. Isn’t that sufficient?

The Fidgety Naturalist

Spring is the quintessential season of change. Shouldn’t I feel the sap rising in my veins? True, spring transforms flora and fauna, but it is also a time of stasis. Leaves burst through the ground, but the plants rest before blooming. Hatchlings will appear soon, but the eagles still incubate. Days are longer, but nights are cool. Some daytime temperatures are in the 60s while others are in the 30s. Every winter I remember spring as the season of drama it is, but this early we’re only on the cusp of change. Many people revel in the promise as much as the actuality, but I’m antsy to see flowers in the yard and hatchlings in the nest.