A Walker in the Suburbs

Hummingbirds typically reappear in these parts around the end of April. Often on April 28th. Which is not to say that you can set your calendar by them, but close.

This year, feeders have been in place for more than a week, installed during one of the hot days in this on-again, off-again spring. But I’ve yet to see one of the early arrivals, the so-called scouts, male birds who fly into an area a week or two before the females to search for food.

I look at the feeders, notice that one has lower levels of nectar than the other. Maybe I’ve missed a few birds, but I doubt it. Just to be sure, though, I’m writing this post from the deck.

We are flush with cardinals here in my corner of Virginia, but the male at the feeder yesterday was one of the most vibrant I’ve ever seen. He practically glowed.

I did a little research, and sure enough, male cardinals are at their most vivid in late winter and early spring. Diet determines color, and females want a partner with a seed stash. The redder, the better.

You might wonder how such an outlandishly bright bird manages to be one of the longest lived, up to 15 years old in some cases. Male cardinals certainly aren’t hiding from predators.

The answer, according to the Cornell Bird Lab, is that cardinals avoid the stress of migration, and staying put gives them a longer breeding season. They are “habitat generalists” who can nest in a variety of locations, and the females of the species are far less conspicuous than their mates. They camouflage themselves in tangled shrubs (of which we have plenty).

It’s easy to be ho-hum about cardinals, given how many we have. But their springtime brilliance reminds me how lucky we are to have them in our midst.

(I snapped this photo during a late-winter snowstorm several years ago. This fellow was already an eye-popping scarlet.)

The small birds of winter are much on my mind, the sparrows and chickadees and downy woodpeckers, in part because it is winter and in part because a new suet block has them flocking to the deck.

The large birds of winter have found their way here, too. Which drives the small birds away. If you’re looking for an avian party-killer, just invite a hawk to lunch.

This robust fellow showed up yesterday, as I was munching on a salad. I knew he was looking for the meat-eater’s special so I kept my eye on him as I finished my greens.

The hawk was seeking prey, of course, watching the small birds like a … well, like a hawk. But he wasn’t the only one laser-focused yesterday. While he was watching the small birds, I was watching him.

In 2024, September 19th was the last day we spotted hummingbirds at the feeder. But so far this morning I’ve seen no sign of the tiny birds. We had two days of rain, which may have chased them off, or maybe they were following that mysterious call that sends them from suburban backyards to tropical rainforests.

They fly hundreds of miles, winging their way south over the Gulf of Mexico to their winter home in Central America. The calories they consume will help them make that journey.

On Tuesday, before the rains came, a hummingbird left the feeder and hovered right in front of me. Birds have done this before, almost buzzed me. They seem to be checking me out — or maybe they’re thanking me and saying goodbye.

I answer them in a soft voice, as I do to the parakeets inside. “You’re welcome,” I say. “Please come again next year.”

Hummingbirds were scarce early this summer. They showed up in late April, as usual — a scouting mission? — then vanished for weeks, lured by more tempting feeding troughs or blocked by the rain. But lately they’ve returned, sipping homemade nectar and supping on potted petunias.

Hummingbirds are my summertime companions — not exactly my spirit animal, but close. Their speed and hustle are the soul of the season. They live with abandon. They zoom, they dive. They perch ever so lightly on the thinnest of climbing rose twigs.

Sitting here, mired in words, I long to break free as they do. Romanticizing them? Of course. Their life is no picnic; it’s an ongoing quest for food and safety. But their presence is a balm to me. They remind me to live in the moment, to live free.