Predictability is one of the many pleasures in birding because it's so often a rarity. After all, birds are wild creatures, navigating a barrage of nature's variables like seasons, weather, long-distance migrations, and the selfish, competing interests of so many other creatures, including man. As a result sometimes merely catching a glimpse of a tanager high in a tree for only a brief moment can thrill the most jaded birder.
Of course filled feeders in our yards do consistently attract many birds, which we can watch from sunrise to sunset as they peck at and gulp down our handouts. As a result I've learned some of the animals' behaviors, like that acorn woodpeckers in Prescott eschew most seeds, and instead voraciously attack the peanut butter suet. Meanwhile, lesser goldfinches avoid the suet altogether and instead imbibe in one or more of the five seeds in Jay's Premium Blend Birdseed.
One Prescott bird that doesn't appear able to straddle the suet container as easily as a woodpecker is the local Woodhouse's scrub jay. Just this weekend I observed an individual approach the basket from below, attempting to hover hummingbird-like as it awkwardly flapped its wings while vainly stabbing at the suet.
It was unpleasant to watch such an intelligent, graceful creature dine so inelegantly. Fortunately over the years, I've observed more dignified jay conduct both at my cabin and in the wilds of the woods. While mostly eating insects and fruit in the summer, the birds also collect nuts from trees like pinyon pines and store the seeds for fall and winter diets. As a result I often leave raw, unroasted peanuts on my outside deck's railing not only for the jays to collect but also for my personal entertainment.
The playful birds often announce their arrival in my yard with raspy squawks. If there are no nuts, they'll wait patiently in an oak tree until I serve them. I usually place only a few peanuts at a time; I don't want to inadvertently feed any leftovers to pack rats or squirrels. Watching the subsequent behavior of the jays is joyfully predictable.
Firstly, I've rarely seen a scrub jay crack open and eat the peanut on the spot. Instead, the bird snatches one in its beak and alights to a tree branch, a rocky crevice, or a pile of dried leaves, and then stows the nut for a cold weather larder. If I put out three peanuts, or four, or even five, one by one each nut finds its way to a snug corner of my yard.
But there's an additional detail in the jay's behavior: a selective choice of exactly which peanut the bird chooses first. Never deviating, the jay absconds first with the largest peanut, next the second biggest, until it finally retrieves the smallest. As recently as Sunday I tested my theory when I put out three uniquely-sized peanuts all at once - papa, mama, and baby-bear varieties, if you will - and observed a jay pick them off in that exact order.
I have also watched jays 'weigh' individual peanuts that looked close in mass, when a bird will lift one, shake it, put it down, lift the other, and shake it, before deciding on a nut - apparently the heaviest - to make off with. Also, the jays never seem interested in the occasional peanut that falls out of a shell; maybe they know the effect of summer monsoon rains on stored food.
Every bird is fascinating in its own unique ways. I'm lucky to bear witness to not just the Woodhouse's scrub jay but to a menagerie of resident and migratory birds in my Prescott yard and throughout my home state. But it's when the birds and their behaviors become familiar, even predictable, that I feel like I'm not just visiting nature but that I've actually found my home there, in a place I'm never alone.
A Woodhouse's scrub jay in Prescott predictably choosing the largest of three peanuts. |
A Woodhouse's scrub jay predictably choosing the second largest peanut. |
A Woodhouse's scrub jay in Prescott waiting for more peanuts after my Sunday experiment. |
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