A skirmish line of European Starlings marched across my lawn, heads bobbing and bills stabbing the grass. The sun had yet to convince the dandelions to unfurl from their tightly wrapped night-sleep, but rain had soaked the lawn. I stood in silent witness to the approach of the birds, watching through my screen door, which I kept closed; I did not want to startle them into flight and away from what work they were doing on that moist ground. After a few moments, I noticed a Brown-Headed Cowbird moving with the starlings, working on the grass. I could not see what the birds were hunting and gathering.
On a recent and previous morning, I had heard some bird commotion and looked out my door at the side yard, where I saw a face-off between Robins and Starlings. The great muscular Robins were far more vocal than the Starlings but were soon set to flight by the smaller birds. Size might matter, but the Starlings showed more heart. That memory was in my mind as I watched the Cowbirds and Starlings working in concert across my green and new-mown grass. As the birds moved North on the lawn, I caught a glimpse of other birds in brief flight. The white tail-feathers of Dark-Eyed Juncos flashed as the birds lifted off; they landed in a poinsettia bush at the edge of the lawn.
In a corner of the lawn near my porch railing, I noticed the movement of a Robin. A worm writhed beneath its assault. I watched in silence as the Robin, with a quick move, pierced the worm. It quickly swallowed the chunk it had ripped off. The severed end of the worm wiggled briefly on the wet ground and then: the Robin gobbled it. I mused briefly on the possibility that the Robin had been a member of the crew that had been routed by the Starlings on that other day and had come back to salvage some dignity by scarfing up food beneath the wandering eyes of the victors. Then, I remembered anthropomorphism — “the practice in which humans attribute human emotional and behavioral features to … animals” — and turned my attention back to the front lawn.
The Cowbirds had flown, but the Starlings were still probing the grass, looking for things to eat. In the air above them, Rock Pigeons were nervously aligning themselves on a telephone wire. I realized that I had never seen a pigeon on my lawn — though I had seen them in the street — and while I was wondering why, the birds on the lawn burst into startled flight. I stepped onto my front porch and noticed that the dandelions were warming to the sun, presenting yellow petals to the sky. I glanced at the shepherd’s hook from which my bird feeder swung: It was empty, and I regretted that I had not been of “seed-service” to my avian friends and their squirrel companions. The bird feeder was mostly frequented by House Sparrows; they would fling seeds onto the ground for the fat Fox Squirrels.
I sat down in a chair and remembered my time at another house, where my feeder had attracted a wide variety of birds, including, on one magnificent day, a Rose-Breasted Grosbeak. I was able to identify that bird because it graces the cover of my Sibley Birds East field guide. But I do live close to Ellenberger Park, so I can carry my camera and binoculars into the woods there.
Of course, in springtime in Irvington, Indiana, there will be Barred Owls, though they do not land on my lawn.
cjon3acd@att.net