Late last year I wrote about scattering seeds in my Phoenix backyard in order to attract some neighborhood birds, in particular a couple of northern cardinals. From November until very recently this showy pair made regular, frequent visits to feed on the sunflower seeds that I laid a few at a time on my block wall or that I tossed among succulents in a long, raised planter.
I had figured out early in the year that these birds liked that seed and didn't live exclusively on the millet and other tiny grains that served as the basis for most generic bird seed blends. As a result I was able to keep the more common and much more numerous house sparrows, house finches and mourning doves to a minimum by providing the sunflower seeds in very limited quantities to my unique and welcome guests.
The cardinal seems quite adept at eating the sunflower seed, as it synchronizes its large beak and dexterous tongue to crack open the shell in its mouth, discharges the casing, and swallows the inner kernel in a quick 1-2-3 procedure. On the other hand, the Abert's towhee in my yard took a bit longer to munch the seed as it opened the shell, spit out the casing and the kernel altogether, and then finally enjoyed its meal by picking up the fallen kernel from the ground.
We were an interesting study, these two bird species and I: a veritable pas de trois. I'm not sure if they especially relished the sunflower seeds; they were probably starving for any morsel on several of last winter's cold, wet mornings. Nonetheless I delighted in their visits, when they might notice I was in the backyard, and then perch close-by, tweeting in anticipation of a handout. But last month the Abert's towhee, who is an especially large tan-colored sparrow native to the local deserts, started vociferously chasing the cardinals away. At first dismayed - who wouldn't prefer the flashy scarlet-colored bird in his yard? - I quickly became endeared when I realized the towhee was eating for three, her two fledglings loudly squealing from a safer distance during these feedings.
Yet, even with doling out sunflower seeds selectively, I was still attracting other birds like finches and doves. I wasn't piling the seeds in feeders; I was placing six or seven in a small, visible group or scattering them in the foliage. If for some reason a pleading cardinal had his fill after only a single seed and a towhee wasn't in the vicinity, it was never long before one of the "city" birds came in for a feast.
The mourning doves weren't particular about eating just the kernel of the seed; no, they hoovered up the entire seed, shell casings and all. The house finches might have had a similar habit but what I most noticed about them is that they actually ate the discarded shells after the cardinals or towhees or whatever were finished with their more selective meals. Now I know why my backyard is not criss-crossed by paths of sunflower shells: life in the wild is starving and doesn't have the human luxury to be discriminating in its tastes.
A couple of weeks into spring now, the cardinal pair have abruptly stopped making appearances. I heard the distinctive, metallic peep of one the other day, and quickly spied a male in my yard's biggest palo verde tree. When I approached with a few seeds, however, he backed off, fluttering away into a lysiloma tree, warily eying me instead of anticipating where I might place his meal.
I put a few seeds high up on the block wall edging my property, where the towhees don't usually feed, and where he'd have a clear view and multiple lines of flight. But something was different: was this cardinal smaller than Fang? (I started calling him that over the last several months because of his upper mandible's distinctive overbite.) The new bird's belly feathers appeared mottled and his backside seemed darker. He ignored my offering and flew to a higher perch and belted out a melody that sounded like a mating call before finally flying off.
It was Sunday and I hadn't seen Fang in two days, so I was paying especially close attention to this cardinal. The Friday before, Fang had been an uncharacteristically frequent visitor to my backyard, begging on six or seven occasions for a handout with his finely-tuned toots. I happily fed him, wondering if he was feeding for three, like the towhee. The female cardinal in contrast had started making less frequent visits, maybe once daily, late in the day.
I imagined her brooding most of her time on a nest, with Fang passing kernels to her just like he did in my trees so many weeks ago in what I presumed was a courtship ritual. And maybe he's even helping her raise a chick or two. But Sunday's cardinal didn't seem to fit the model of a doting husband and father, appearing younger and less invested in my yard and largesse. He was wilder, and freer, completely unshackled by a quarantined birder's wildest of fantasies.
I had figured out early in the year that these birds liked that seed and didn't live exclusively on the millet and other tiny grains that served as the basis for most generic bird seed blends. As a result I was able to keep the more common and much more numerous house sparrows, house finches and mourning doves to a minimum by providing the sunflower seeds in very limited quantities to my unique and welcome guests.
The cardinal seems quite adept at eating the sunflower seed, as it synchronizes its large beak and dexterous tongue to crack open the shell in its mouth, discharges the casing, and swallows the inner kernel in a quick 1-2-3 procedure. On the other hand, the Abert's towhee in my yard took a bit longer to munch the seed as it opened the shell, spit out the casing and the kernel altogether, and then finally enjoyed its meal by picking up the fallen kernel from the ground.
We were an interesting study, these two bird species and I: a veritable pas de trois. I'm not sure if they especially relished the sunflower seeds; they were probably starving for any morsel on several of last winter's cold, wet mornings. Nonetheless I delighted in their visits, when they might notice I was in the backyard, and then perch close-by, tweeting in anticipation of a handout. But last month the Abert's towhee, who is an especially large tan-colored sparrow native to the local deserts, started vociferously chasing the cardinals away. At first dismayed - who wouldn't prefer the flashy scarlet-colored bird in his yard? - I quickly became endeared when I realized the towhee was eating for three, her two fledglings loudly squealing from a safer distance during these feedings.
Yet, even with doling out sunflower seeds selectively, I was still attracting other birds like finches and doves. I wasn't piling the seeds in feeders; I was placing six or seven in a small, visible group or scattering them in the foliage. If for some reason a pleading cardinal had his fill after only a single seed and a towhee wasn't in the vicinity, it was never long before one of the "city" birds came in for a feast.
The mourning doves weren't particular about eating just the kernel of the seed; no, they hoovered up the entire seed, shell casings and all. The house finches might have had a similar habit but what I most noticed about them is that they actually ate the discarded shells after the cardinals or towhees or whatever were finished with their more selective meals. Now I know why my backyard is not criss-crossed by paths of sunflower shells: life in the wild is starving and doesn't have the human luxury to be discriminating in its tastes.
A couple of weeks into spring now, the cardinal pair have abruptly stopped making appearances. I heard the distinctive, metallic peep of one the other day, and quickly spied a male in my yard's biggest palo verde tree. When I approached with a few seeds, however, he backed off, fluttering away into a lysiloma tree, warily eying me instead of anticipating where I might place his meal.
I put a few seeds high up on the block wall edging my property, where the towhees don't usually feed, and where he'd have a clear view and multiple lines of flight. But something was different: was this cardinal smaller than Fang? (I started calling him that over the last several months because of his upper mandible's distinctive overbite.) The new bird's belly feathers appeared mottled and his backside seemed darker. He ignored my offering and flew to a higher perch and belted out a melody that sounded like a mating call before finally flying off.
It was Sunday and I hadn't seen Fang in two days, so I was paying especially close attention to this cardinal. The Friday before, Fang had been an uncharacteristically frequent visitor to my backyard, begging on six or seven occasions for a handout with his finely-tuned toots. I happily fed him, wondering if he was feeding for three, like the towhee. The female cardinal in contrast had started making less frequent visits, maybe once daily, late in the day.
I imagined her brooding most of her time on a nest, with Fang passing kernels to her just like he did in my trees so many weeks ago in what I presumed was a courtship ritual. And maybe he's even helping her raise a chick or two. But Sunday's cardinal didn't seem to fit the model of a doting husband and father, appearing younger and less invested in my yard and largesse. He was wilder, and freer, completely unshackled by a quarantined birder's wildest of fantasies.
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| Fang, my backyard's male northern cardinal this past winter, discarding a sunflower seed's shell and holding its kernel. |
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| Cardinal pair in my backyard this past winter. |
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| Female northern cardinal with sunflower seed in my backyard. |
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| Abert's towhee anticipating a sunflower seed handout in my backyard. |
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| Fang, last winter's male northern cardinal, in my backyard eating a sunflower seed, with a male house finch joining in the feast. |
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| Fang and his overbite. |
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