Bird in Hand: Disrupted school and winter confinement bring unusual wild encounter
Ben Moyer
Even those of us who embrace winter have been homebound by recent weather, so that outdoor story material has been a challenge to obtain. Snow and extreme cold disrupted school routines, and families looking out from inside had to create their own diversions.
One winter diversion we enjoy is feeding birds. Our daily treats of sunflower and thistle seed, with a side of suet, lure steady visits from cardinals, blue jays, chickadees, titmice, goldfinches, nuthatches, and three different woodpeckers. Their color and action turn a somber winter setting into an ever-varied performance outside the frosted window.
Granddaughter Safari was here for a couple of days mid-week due to school delays, virtual learning, and her parents’ unaffected work schedules. We deemed it too cold for snow-angels, sledding, or snowball skirmishes. Inside, we’d logged into classwork, baked bread, and built LEGO structures.
On Wednesday, the sun shone brightly, and we all remarked how strange that seemed but how welcome it felt. When the temperature creeped above 10, I suggested that Safari accompany me out to the porch to refill the bird feeders. She was eager for a break from virtual school.
As we poured sunflower seed into the wood-and-glass feeder shaped like a miniature barn, birds flocked around us in the spruce branches or flitted around our heads, desperate, it seemed, to refuel after a -12 night that taxed their metabolic reserves.
Among all our common visiting birds, black-capped chickadees are the most trusting. They display little fear of humans, and perched a couple of feet away from us, inspecting every move to confirm that sunflower seeds would again be there for the taking.
Chickadees are small non-migratory birds that endure winter wherever they live. Their range extends from Alaska across Canada south of the tundra/tree-line, and across the northern half of the United States. They are named for their call, which sounds as if they are saying “chick-a-dee-dee-dee.” Chickadees have an effective adaptation to extremely cold nights. They cram into small cavities in tree trunks, sometimes six to 10 birds at a time, and spend the frigid night sharing the common warmth of their bodies. They are closely related to another common feeder bird, the tufted titmouse, which is more wary of humans, but just as eager for a handout.
I must have been thinking of that word “handout” when I suggested to Safari how thrilling it would be to display some sunflower seeds in her extended hand, hold perfectly still, and hope that a chickadee would alight on her hand to snitch a seed. She was all in.
Because the sun was strong, and the wind light, we removed her mitten and piled a small mound of seed into her palm. She thrust it out toward the birds and held herself motionless.
Encouragement didn’t take long. A troop of three or four chickadees moved in even closer, flitting from branch to nearby branch, compelled by hunger and only a little deterred by the small human form at the railing. We could hear the flutter and feel the breeze from their wings. For a few minutes, this triangle of a small child, small birds, and mature grandparent made a pretty intense encounter.
“Hold still, it’s going to happen any second,” I whispered.
She didn’t even reply; just held still as a stone.
Finally, a chickadee flitted forward and perched on her little finger. I could sense Safari’s tremble at the touch of this wild, free creature. The bird cocked its head and seemed to peer into her face, then it snatched one seed from her grasp and flew back into the spruce.
This is the chickadee’s normal mode of feeding. Unlike blue jays, which will greedily dominate a feeder, they take one seed per brief visit, fly off to a perch, and peck off the hull to extract the inner meat. Only then do they return for another seed.
Within seconds a second chickadee alighted on my granddaughter’s hand, then another. I was surprised at how well, and how quickly, our ploy worked. I’d tried the same thing myself before with less success. Maybe wild things sense less of a threat from a child.
Finally, Safari whispered, “My fingers are freezing.”
We replaced her mitten and retreated inside to the woodstove’s warmth, where she insisted on seeing the photos I’d taken of the unusual meeting.
“That was the coolest thing ever,” she said.
I felt an upwelling of warm satisfaction. My granddaughter had shared contact with a living wild thing and had revelled in its safe departure to resume its life. For both of us, it was an unforgettable enhancement to a day of learning outside the classroom.