Bobolink Singin' on the Compost Pile
"Blackbird singin' in the dead of night
..." That's my song for the day,
only I composed my own line, with apologies to McCartney, "Bobolink
singin' on the compost pile." It
pretty much works. Try it. There's that extra syllable in
"Bobolink" but it's easily incorporated. I sat weeding the garden
this morning while the bobolink serenaded me from atop the nearby compost heap,
blurting his characteristic song,
reminiscent of R2D2 computing the answer to a posed problem. The reason that kinda thing makes hearts
flutter around here is that, through some intentional machinations, we set out
to attract bobolinks to our very property. Bobolinks are meadow birds – they like wide
expanses of open grassland, and of course they hate it when they go to all the
trouble to construct their ground nest of grass and soft leaves and then some
tractor comes along and makes hay out of the entire project. So, this spring, we took out of production
several acres of farm field that lie around our house and allowed them to
return to wild meadow. This being the
first year of our experiment we harbored only faint hopes that payoff would
come so quickly.
We also spread five bluebird
boxes across the meadow, cuz bluebirds like the same sort of deal but they are
cavity nesters. Then we watched the
grass grow. Several pairs of bluebirds
had a look-see – they fluttered around each box, had a look within, measured
for drapes as it were, but none were ready to make a commitment. So, tree swallows flew into the breech,
occupying two of the houses. The tree
swallows have proven to be wonderful neighbors – they mesmerize us daily with
displays of aerial acrobatics as they dip and dive, dodge and weave in pursuit
of insects on the wing. They also spend
some part of most days burbling out their song while perched on the snap pea
trellis.
The final player in this
backyard drama is the savannah sparrow. He's
a rather nondescript little fellow, finely streaked brown back, mostly white
belly, pinkish legs and beak. His only
adornment comes in the form of a faint yellow blotch in front of each eye. He also likes to perch nearby and produce his
understated, brief song that reminds me of a bedspring going “boing”, only very
faintly. Savannah sparrows also demonstrate, each time
they alight, an endearing behavior of “shaking off”, much like a dog emerging
from water.
But the bobolink is the star of
the show. The male converts his plumage
each spring from a drab camo look to starkly contrasting black belly, white
back, and buffy nape. Bobolinks migrate
a long way each year, bouncing to and fro, fall and spring, between southern
South America and northern North American meadows, one of the longest seasonal
sojourns of any bird. Jen first noticed
the male by ear a couple weeks ago, picking up on his loud burbling song. She
scanned the meadow and there he was perched atop a pin cherry surveying his new
domain. Now we've become casual buds. He
chatters at me from various redoubts as I putter in the garden. He and his mate flutter about the place diving
into the tall timothy. The bobolink
isn't a graceful flyer. He frequently
pops from a hiding place in the grass flapping furiously, singing loudly, and
seeming to make slow progress aloft. To
describe his rather ungainly climb, the best analogy I can produce, albeit one
that will resonate with a limited audience, is Pat Burrell, former Phillie who
ran with a particularly ungainly gait, trying to beat out a ground ball to
first base, something I'm quite sure he never accomplished successfully during
his entire career.
Pulling weeds is a meditative
sort of project. One’s mind hops here
and there whilst the fingers grapple with the base of interloping flora,
seeking just the right force and tension to remove the entire plant, root and
all, without breaking off the stem. With
each success comes a small, but not insignificant, rush of accomplishment. A rhythm is established – grasp, subtle
tension, resistance with a little give, increase tension, it releases. Shake dirt from roots, toss into bucket. Grasp
again …A gentle breeze keeps the gnats at bay, the sounds of the meadow and
adjacent forest create a melody. Then I notice my new friend and I give my own
little song, “Bobolink singin’ on the compost pile.”
(photos all web rip-offs)
(photos all web rip-offs)
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