The Point Reyes Lighthouse


The ranger is pulling the circular curtain
The demonstration is at an end
Beam by beam, the lighthouse begins
To swallow shafts of light,
24, 23, 22 …
Until only a couple remain.

Beyond a window of the illuminated cylinder
The ranger lingers awhile
Pronouncing the sentence
Of a once-lighthouse, now a museum piece
With but a few moments
Of phosphorescent mist.

All is dark again and cold and damp
But I am glad of the thick fog,
Glad of light and of planar geometry
Glad of Fresnel; lens tinkerer
Of whales a-bellow, gliding under
A vague hint of moon.

The visible world is shrinking to ten feet
Mist rains silently on the cliff
The ocean rumbles no more, not much is discernible
Beside me, the earnest gloved hand
Shivers a little
On our way to the car.

[I wrote the poem below after visiting the Point Reyes Lighthouse for the first time in 2009. It has remained in draft form ever since, shared only with the person who appears in the final few lines. Until now.]


Feeder Tales, Part 3: Species

Our feeder has now been up for about a year, and while the sweet sound of finches never grows old, the feeder itself is now a more natural and unsurprising item in our home, much like our plants. Many more birds have discovered it by now, and they join the chickadees, juncos, and finches in a feeding frenzy that occurs soon after dawn, and continues through the morning hours when the days are cloudy.

A few California towhees visit the feeder from time to time. Often, they come in pairs, with a parent shepherding a younger bird. They make a faint, periodic “chip” sound  (an assurance of each others presence), as they hop about on the tarp. These are humble brown birds, with slightly orange nether parts, who prefer to forage for fallen seed, rather than perching on the feeder itself. Like the juncos, they are our waste control system; they ensure that the seed spilling out of the feeder is not wasted.

This is no easy task because, lately, we have had to contend with a pest who appears to take devilish pleasure in strewing un-eaten seed out of the feeder. I refer to the scrub jays who visit every morning, announcing their presence with a loud shriek, effectively terrorizing any other bird within jumping distance of the feeder. Heavy, blue and quite shameless about their mannerisms, the jays perch on the feeder, take large amounts of bird seed in their corvid beaks, and scatter it out of the feeder.

We would have loved it if the jays had been eating the seed, but this appears not to have been the case. Their beaks are not adapted for eating tiny seeds. Their primary interest appears to be in emptying out the feeder as quickly as possible, by throwing as much seed onto the ground as they can. The frequency with which we replenish the birdseed has increased to once a week now, but it is difficult to keep up with the profligate jays. Replacing the original seed – a combination of corn bits, sunflower seed, millets – with Nijer seed appears to have helped a little; the jays are either less interested or less capable of scattering the smaller, black seeds.

cropped-nuthatchheader.pngA few tiny birds came in during the winter, but they’ve been gone since spring and for much of the early summer. On December mornings, oak titmice and white-breasted nuthatches would share time with the finches and chickadees. They’re both good citizens, and don’t make too much of a mess. I like the nuthatches in particular, as they perch on the feeder in their trademark upside down way. They are very frisky, and even a finch is enough to scare them away. I hope that these little visitors come back in Fall, and that they figure out a way to get some food when the jays are not looking.

Also in winter, we were visited by groups of golden-crowned sparrows, who spent equal time on the feeder and on the tarp. When they first appeared in January, their crowns were brown, with minuscule flecks of gold, and you could be forgiven for confusing them for other large sparrows. They disappeared for a few weeks, and returned in spring, looking rather different – I even wondered if we were seeing a new species of visitors, but the field guide confirmed that these were golden crowns too. Only now, each one had a certifiable crown, a bright yellow band, bordered with jet black that distinguished them from drabber sparrows. Clearly, the mating season was on.

Now, in the middle of a dry, drought-prone summer, we have mostly finches and juncos who come to eat the seed, and jays who come to scatter them. The birds also spend time at a concrete bird bath that we put below the feeder. This is a constant source of embarrassment for me, because I broke a piece of the concrete while carrying the ridiculously heavy thing onto our balcony. P has been more diligent than I at keeping the bath filled with fresh water. The birds not only drink from it, but occasionally also flutter about in the water, enjoying some respite from the heat of the past few weeks.

Feeder Tales, Part 2: First visitors

We put up our feeder for the first time in July.  Close to the feeder, outside the apartment, were a tree that resembles a paper birch and a couple of redwoods, in which hummingbirds and chickadees take refuge. By checking the area underneath the feeder for seed husks and bird droppings, we guessed that no bird spent any significant amount of time at the feeder for the first two days. This appears to be natural, as the birds need some time to discover a new food source in their territory. It was from the paper birch, that our feeder got its first visitors.

On the third morning, a chestnut-backed chickadee perched on the Y-shaped wire from which the feeder hangs. This is a tiny bird that looks like most chickadees except for a generous coat of chestnut brown on its back and shoulders.  The bird perched down, picked up a seed and quickly shot back to the birch tree. It had a companion. No sooner had the first bird completed its errand, than the second bird came forth and did the same. This alternating feeding pattern appears to go on for some time, and one wonders whether it is just the natural gregariousness of chickadees, or a way to ensure that one bird always keeps watch while the other feeds. On occasion, there would be one chickadee performing acrobatics on the feeder wire, while the other quickly pecked at a seed or two, it was rare to see two or more chickadees feeding simultaneously. At any rate, chickadees are among the cleanest feeders (unlike finches), as they seem to eat very little and thus shed very tiny droppings. They make a pleasant to-do while feeding, enjoying their own acrobatics, and this appears to attract other songbirds to the feeder.

During the second week, one of the chickadees enlisted a new companion for his trips from the birch to the feeder and back – an Oregon Junco. The two birds repeated the alternate feeding ritual. From then on, juncos have been regular visitors to the feeder. We have developed a special fondness for juncos, as it was a junco that prompted us to install the feeder in the first place. They make a faint “chip, chip chip” sound as they hop about the gazebo, or on the tarp below. They’re bigger than the chickadees, more conservatively attired in black and reddish brown feathers, and not as flighty as the little busybodies. They’re also not as confrontational as jays and finches. In fact, when the feeder is occupied by chickadees or finches, the juncos seem to be perfectly content to hop about on the tarp below, picking up un-eaten seeds that have fallen down along with the husk.

The feeder’s most voracious and messy visitors – a group of house finches – discovered the feeder a few days after the chickadees. Most summer days, before driving to work, I would hear a couple of finches singing in the parking lot, and I hoped they would find the feeder soon. They generally come to the feeder in pairs, the male distinguished by his red head and chest feathers, and the female a drabber brown and beige. The first order of duty appears to be to shoo any and all smaller birds that may already be at the feeder. Then, they proceed to boss each other around, spending equal amounts of time devouring the seed and warning away other birds, including other finches. The males seem to be slightly more aggressive than the females, though this varies. One female in particular has a really weird pattern of eating. She enters the gazebo entirely — different from the others, who prefer to perch on the edge and peck at the seed that falls forth from a transparent plastic cylinder at its center — and spends a long time contemplatively chewing on the seed. I have often wondered whether this bird was ill, and unable to move, for she stayed in the feeder and remained so docile that even our non-confrontational juncos dared to approach the gazebo from the other side to sneak away a seed or two. The finches create quite a mess, both in terms of un-eaten seed that spills forth onto the tarp, and in the copious amounts of bird droppings. When I see the finches having their feeding frenzy, I feel grateful to the juncos that clean up below them on the tarp.

In the summer of 2014, the birds were quite voracious, and the cylinder of bird seed was emptied within a couple of weeks. We developed a routine of sorts; every couple of weeks, we replaced the birdseed and cleaned up the husks and droppings from the tarp below. This state of affairs, unfortunately, did not last very long, and the feeder had to be taken down and moved elsewhere, as it inconvenienced the neighbors in the apartment downstairs. This changed the patterns of avian activity at the feeder, and encouraged new species to pay us a visit, but that will have to wait for another post.

Condors of the Grand Canyon

[While we are still on the birding theme, this is an old post that I wrote (but never published) almost exactly 4 years ago. It is about the experience of seeing a live condor for the first time. The bird in the photograph – Condor #3 – was spotted not far from Lee’s Ferry Lodge at Vermillion Cliffs in Arizona. On purpose, the posting below has not been revised, so all numbers and ages pertain to 2008.]

One of the many attractions of the Grand Canyon is the California Condor. Indeed, having no conception of the grandeur of the canyon, the only question I had asked friends returning from the canyon was, “Did you see any condors?” – a question answered, with one rare exception in the quizzical negative. On my visit to the Canyon on Memorial Day Weekend, I saw at least 7 distinct condors and it was a wish fulfilled.

On the brink of extinction in the early 1980s, the last few remaining condors were captured for a rehabilitation program that is slowly but surely increasing their numbers. Condors are being bred in captivity at three centers in Arizona, California and Idaho. The goal is to have three separate populations of 150 birds each, two of these populations being wild, and the third being held in captivity to account for emergencies. At this time of writing, there are 63 wild condors in the Grand Canyon, and they can be seen gliding on the thermals at the South Rim near Tusayan, AZ.

A ranger at the South Rim showed us how to distinguish between a condor and a turkey vulture, and between a condor and a common raven. Confusing the latter pair is not as ridiculous as it sounds, because the Canyon plays havoc with one’s sense of scale. On the backdrop of huge boulders and multicolored cliff faces thousands of feet deep, the nine-and-a-half foot wingspan of the condor is dwarfed significantly, and if one’s estimate of distance is unsound, a raven close by might be confused with a condor far away.

At Vermilion Cliffs, a place one gets to by following the North rim eastward on route 89A toward Glen Canyon, an inn-keeper told us that condors are routinely seen from the Navajo Bridge, a steel arch bridge built across Marble Canyon at the point where the Colorado valley widens again into Glen Canyon. Sure enough, around 10 am on May 25, there were three condors near the bridge (1) #53, a four-year old condor who still hasn’t lost all the hair on his head and neck, (2)#3 who is eight years old and seems fully mature, (3) one condor whose head and numberplate I could not see.

It is a fascinating bird – its ugliness on the ground compensated when one beholds it in the air – graceful, strong, unhurried. In the gliding position, the condor’s wings are positioned in a much shallower V than that of the turkey vulture, a characteristic I found useful when I couldn’t see the underside of the birds’ wings. This happens many times in the canyon, for instance, when one is hiking near the cliff while the birds are gliding peacefully in the canyon below. It was surprising to know that the feet of a condor are webbed, and not very useful for tearing meat; that job is performed exclusively using their beaks. It is thus a bird that needs very large quantities of carrion to feed while being unable to hunt on its own. This seems to have been the cause of their small numbers – as human civilization progressed over the Americas, land was reclaimed for agriculture, housing, and industry with the result that condor habitat and the probability of finding carrion must have dwindled, almost sending the birds into extinction. In addition, lead poisoning from consumption of meat riddled with bullets has also been held responsible for the death of many wild condors. For more detailed information, visit the Condor Re-introduction Program website.

Name: California Condor

Latin Name: Gymnogyps californianus

Number of distinct birds sighted: 7

Places: Marble Canyon (3 birds), South Rim Bright Angle Lodge (3 birds), South Kaibab Trail (1 bird)

Dates: May 25-26, 2008

Mega, Giga and Tera

No, this is not a post about computer memories.

If you’ve read some of the previous posts on Mirkwood, you probably realized that mid-February through mid-April were my work weeks from hell. It sometimes felt as if I had worked more in those two months than I had in the past six, which is probably just my imagination. Certainly, the stress of work carried over into whatever little was left of those joyless days and much that was beautiful passed unnoticed. But fortunately for you, dear reader, this is not a post about my sob story either. This is a post about two wonderful birds.

Several times during early to mid-April, as I cycled or drove by 185 Alewife Brook Parkway in Cambridge, I would glance instinctively at the spot where Buzz and Ruby had first made a nest in 2010, returning in 2011. Nesting successfully in both years, the two hawks captured the imagination of several shoppers, who would chat with the local birdwatchers, and catch a glimpse of the parenting activity. In 2010, Lucy, Lucky and Larry all fledged in quick succession capping a wonderful two months for those of us who visited Fresh Pond Mall, and brought friends over to share the experience. In 2011, they returned to the same spot and over the Spring months, brought three new hawks into the world: Alpha, Beta and Whitey.

In 2012 however, the nest looked abandoned. I would look at the spot, find an empty bed of sticks and look away with a twinge of sadness, thinking: “Looks like they aren’t coming back,” or more morbidly “Perhaps they’re dead.” So, I cannot wait to share with readers of the blog that I was wrong! Buzz and Ruby are very much alive, and they are nesting at Fawcett Street in Cambridge, some distance behind Trader Joe’s with their nest obscured by a pine tree. Some searches led me to a series of superbly detailed notes taken by Paul Roberts, who has been following the birds keenly. According to Paul, the reselection of 185 Alewife as a nesting spot was thwarted by the arrival of a fierce territorial foe: A peregrine falcon. I urge you all to read Paul’s amazing account of the rivalry for food and territory between the young falcon and the returning redtails.

When the Peregrine found Buzz poaching in his territory, especially on the Fresh Pond Mall, he would strafe Buzz. He would come zooming in and shoot down at Buzz. I never saw him drop his talons, which would be akin to the “nuclear option,” but he would be like a teenage driver playing a game of chicken, coming as close as possible without striking. Buzz could feel the wind from the Peregrines wings. Usually, Buzz would rather calmly turnaround and proceed back to the shelter of Fresh Pond, or the west side of the parkway. Once or twice the falcon went at Ruby. She is larger, but younger and less experienced than Buzz, and several times she rocked in the air to avoid the world’s fastest, and maybe most audacious bird. [Paul Roberts].

However, things did take a turn for the better. In the new nest at Fawcett street, three hawklings have been born and are  developing into strong birds. Say hello to Mega, Giga and Tera!

Mega is living up to her name. Her wings now seem preternaturally long, and she uses them as crutches as she waddles across the nest. Yesterday she was slapping one wing into her mother’s face, exposing her entire body above the wall of the nest as she tried to literally circumvent Ruby. I was silently shouting “get back, get back” as she appeared perilously close to being on the very edge of the nest. [Paul Roberts]

People are again flocking to see the new family. Apparently, there have even been hawk viewing lunches, and one is being planned for June 3. And, more hawks have been observed nesting in Mt. Auburn Cemetery. This makes me smile, feel ridiculously optimistic, and thankful to Buzz and Ruby Redtail. And isn’t it capitally fantastic that there are people who care enough to document these goings-on in such fine detail !