On September 22nd, we observed the official change of season from summer to fall. This was the autumnal equinox, the day when we technically see 12 hours of daylight and 12 hours of night. As the days go by, we see less and less of the sun, and the change happens quickly. We lose three minutes of daylight every day, and those who go to work early in the morning will see many more stars than they did just a month ago.
The change in light levels began in late June, but was subtle at first. Now the trees have sensed what’s happening and are transitioning from summer mode to winter preparation mode. With the amount and intensity of light low enough, deciduous trees are replacing the green chlorophyll with the reds, oranges and yellows of carotenoids, in an effort to capture the last of the season’s energy before finally shutting down and shedding their leaves.
Another notable change has been in bird behaviour. Flocks of insectivorous species that migrated northwards in response to the onset of spring insect abundance have now retreated, heading back to warmer areas closer to the tropics. Wintering bird species are also shifting gears from breeding to survival mode, and smaller feeding birds are beginning to show changes in personality.
During the summer a certain amount of tolerance is allowed for the young birds just starting out in life, but now the severity is gradually increasing. The feeder beside my thinking chair has been very busy recently and the details of bird politics are starting to become clear. The chicks are not chicks anymore and some are starting to assert themselves. The older birds are not necessarily happy about this and now conflicts are brewing.
It seems nearly impossible to me to tell one chickadee from the next by sight; having eight or nine in the same place at the same time is completely bewildering. But it’s much easier to tell the difference by their behavior. Some chickadee fly right up to me and grab food with ultra-confidence, while others are much more cautious. Some perch on my head, sorting through the morning’s food, looking for the perfect one to sneak home. Others are reluctant to go through this process at all, searching for food further away.
All the while, the birds seem to be gauging each other and determining the pecking order. They are a lot more bossy now than when I saw them a month ago, and there is a lot more fighting and arguing. Survival is at stake, and no one takes this lightly. I see the same thing happening with Tufted Titmouse, but their numbers are not as high as Black-capped Chickadees, so the level of conflict is somewhat lower.
The most dramatic display of aggressive discomfort I witnessed last week was that of a very annoyed Red-breasted Nuthatch that seemed to lose patience when the amount of bird food at its feeder began to dwindle. Black-capped Chickadees, Great Tits, Song Sparrows, Downy Woodpeckers and even a few Chipmunks all ravenously raided the bird food pile until the nuthatch’s patience had run out.
The bird flew up to the pole directly above the feeder, then went into full Hulk mode. Its wings were lowered to the side, its back feathers stood on end like the fur of an angry cat, and—and this was a very big move—the bird spread its tail. Male wild turkeys might do this to appeal to females, but nuthatches refrain from doing this as the height of anger and aggression. The bird began swaying from side to side. Although you can’t see it in the still image, you can see what are called “undertail feathers” fully deployed.
The Brown Nuthatch has black feathers on its head, white feathers on its throat and belly, and a beautiful blue on its wings and back, while the underside of its tail feathers is a beautiful burgundy colour. I have never understood why this colour is favoured in this species, but it is clear that my understanding has no bearing on the bird. When the situation becomes ‘real’, be prepared to be exposed to a fully deployed ‘nut butt’.
After taking today’s photo, I had to put my camera down and regain my emotional composure. All of us who witnessed this scene had to stop for a moment – bird, chipmunk, photographer. It was a shocking sight and we all had to stop and reflect on our lives, the choices we had made, and just take in the gravity of this moment. Then a teenage blue jay appeared and we all ran for our lives.
Bill Danielson has been a professional writer and nature photographer for 27 years. He has worked for the National Park Service, U.S. Forest Service, The Nature Conservancy and Massachusetts State Parks, and currently teaches high school biology and physics. For more information, visit his website at www.speakingofnature.com or connect with Speaking of Nature on Facebook.
