9-12-2018

A Red-breasted Nuthatch (Sitta canadensis) meets my eye. The birds know quite well that we provide this water for them. And if we forget to refill it, they generally let us hear about it. The Nuthatches (that’s ‘nut hatch’ Jer, not ‘nut thatch’) have a resonant, sort of nasally voice, as if trying to clear their sinuses. In a slow, monosyllabic, somewhat resigned, minor-key tone, they check in with each other, as they work, inverted, down the tree trunks, poking and probing into crevices, looking for bugs or hidden seeds or fungi. They are part of the chatty little coterie that does our tree maintenance here in the neighborhood, along with the Brown Creepers (Certhia americana) working the other way, up the trunks instead of down, without colliding, and the ebullient Mountain Chickadees (Poecile gambeli) flitting antically in the boughs, and the mincing tsk-tsk call of the ground canvassing, Dark-eyed Juncos (Junco hyemalis), all trading tips and updates on who’s finding what, with the usual chattering forest gossip, the joyful dawn chorus, coffee clatch. Life is simple and good here out in the woods.