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Shanley Smith

Through the Window

Field Notes and Musings by Shanley Smith

After reading A Number of Things by Margaret Elliot Drake



It’s not winter yet. December 21 will mark the start, but with each morning bringing frost-tipped or snow-dusted grass, it certainly feels that fall has bowed out. Not only has the grass felt winter’s presence, so have the birds. Many have flown south, but some have returned. Yes, some birds choose to winter here in West Michigan, where the Lake Effect brings in heavy boats of snow, where temperatures drop below zero, where spring sometimes doesn’t truly arrive until April. In comparison to Canada’s weather, perhaps these returners find it balmy. I suppose these brave avians are the true snow birds, ones that flock amidst it, rather than flying from it.


Long gone are the warblers, hummingbirds, and orioles. They have flown to Florida, the Caribbean, South America, Mexico. Ruby-crowned kinglets depart and are replaced by their golden-crowned sisters. What inspires one to bear the cold but not the other? Likewise, the trumpeter swan prefers to winter in Missouri and Illinois, while the Canada goose is content to sift through every season Michigan offers. With the departure of spring and summer’s feathers, the regulars renew my interest. I watch, not just the Canada geese, but the brown creepers, cardinals, and blue jays with renewed interest. A chickadee patters around the deck, while I plod through another day of work. Usually she sticks to the trees, but something about the porch – maybe dropped scraps from a campus resident – has lured her. She too is laboring, much more ardently than I am. Her hunt for seeds will keep her warm and fat through winter.


The chickadee is a wonder. Each fall the brain of a chickadee begins to grow. The hippocampus, steward of spatial memory, swells an additional 30% or so. It must account for the seed caches she has stored. This memory will bring this half ounce bird through winter. In spring, the brain will shrink when food regains abundance.


The dark-eyed juncos are peppering the ground again. On snowy days, their slate feathers render them easily visible. They flit around, flashing their white tail, looking for insects and seeds. In the trees they congregate with the goldfinches. They make an odd pair: the gray-scale junco and the glowing goldfinch, albeit she has dressed down into her subtler winter colors. Prized are the bird feeders set out by the diligent birder. My neighbor has set our four, which will no doubt insulate a variety of juncos, chickadees, titmouses, and cardinals. The gift is reciprocal, the birds receive food and my neighbor will be awarded with feathery sitcoms of cranky titmouses badgering the persistent chickadees. The calendar says it’s not quite winter yet, but if you look outside, you’ll catch the birds already playing their holiday roles.


Near the juncos' grounded territory, chipmunks are entering their winter routine. They’ve disappeared into cozy burrows where they have hoarded a variety of acorns. Just a few weeks ago, I saw them often: their striped and spotted coats flashing by as they hustled to their sanctuary. By now they’ve stopped their hurry and begun hibernating.


Even as the birds trade posts and chipmunks nestle below, some signs of fall still remain. The earth still pumps out the murky scent of breakdown. Leaves and mulch and fall rain mixing together. The wind might chap the hands, but the air itself still holds some moisture. Rain comes often, sometimes shapeshifting into sleet, snow, even hail for a few moments. Neighbors have changed their gait, walking with purpose, while chins tuck into the chest and foreheads bore into the ground. When the wind’s teeth aren’t too sharp, I try to keep my head up or at least take in the smell of the batch of humus that’s baking under the trees. The pine needles are especially fragrant – not like they are in the July heat, sharp and sweet, but deep and rich after marinating in the fall rain.


Even while I tilt my head down on walks, I still keep my eyes peeled on the shrubbery. Who knows, maybe I’ll chance on one more chipmunk sighting. But the chances are slim. The chipmunk knows the routines. While the rest of the earth slows down, I scarf my lunch in the cafeteria. Then, back to work! On the cold walk back to my on-campus apartment, I see no scurries of chipmunks. Resuming my perch in my home office, I glance at the bed just ten feet away from my desk. Twelve days until winter break. Fifteen until the solstice. But who’s counting? Not the chipmunks or juncos, they’ve already given themselves permission: to rest and return and do as they see fit.


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