Friday was the third of a short string of sunny warm days which came to an end today:  our April showers have returned.  But I was able to get outside and experience some of the wonders of early spring in our neck of the woods.  One of the most dynamic of the spring things is the mating and nesting activity of the birds.  I have three nest boxes in our Juneberry tree, one of which is a gourd that has been claimed by a pair of chickadees.

Since the chickadee is my favorite backyard bird, I’m happy about their moving in.  I like their joie de vivre: their obvious zest for living.  They are so tiny and vulnerable that you’d think they’d live with a dread sense of jeopardy—always looking over their shoulder for danger.  Instead they are filled with a curiosity and boldness that amazes me.  It’s like they have said to themselves, “Ain’t nothing we can do about being small and easy targets; so there’s no sense in wasting life in a state of worry.  If we die, we die; so let’s live life with gusto.”

So Friday I was standing at my potting table getting things ready for spring and gently “pishing” to see if I could catch the attention of any and all nearby birds.  Pishing is a trick birders have used for years to call birds to them, but no one seems to know where the practice came from.  Its typical form is like hissing “Shhh” with a P in front of it.  A variation is the sound you make when you want to call someone to you to tell them a secret: “Pssst.”  It can be loud or soft.  Loud, it must sound like a bird in distress.  Soft, it seems to raise curiosity.  No one, of course, knows exactly why it works.  If you want to read about it and other forms of calling birds, pick up the book The Art of Pishing by Pete Dunne and published by Stackpole Books.  It highlights several ways of attracting birds by mimicking their calls.  On the cover are the photos of two birds: the chickadee and the tufted titmouse.  These two just can’t seem to ignore pishing.  One spring I did the call loudly in my old orchard—while concealed in a tall bush.  Within five minutes, ten different species of birds had come to check it out—including, to my delight, a brilliant yellow warbler.

As I was working and pishing softly, it was hardly a minute before my pair of chickadees came over for a visit.  One alighted on the corner of the potting table about three feet from my elbow.  The other perched on a branch about four feet above my head.  In response to the sound they tip their heads much like a dog does when it hears an unusual sound.

Later in the day, I decided to take a walk in the woods to check on the progress of spring.  Our church sits on a piece of land that was once a mature woodlot.  Much of the woodland remains, but since we are fairly new to this church, I had never walked the woods before.  My stroll was a joy, with new-life discoveries every few feet.  Trout lilies (adder’s tongue) were coming up in profusion, and patches of brilliant white bloodroot and the smaller Canada anemone could be spotted at a significant distance.  Spring beauties were everywhere.  And there were also some large patches of wild leek, the broad leaves of which provided the first swatches of green on the brown forest floor.

Birdlife was abundant and loud.  Above a vernal pool echoing with the sounds of spring peepers and chorus frogs, a large congregation of common grackles had found a number of nest holes, and the whole group was squeaking and crawking like a dozen garden gates in need of oiling.  Walking away from that cacophony, I was able to pick up the territorial call of a tufted titmouse.  It sounds like the typical whistle you make when calling a dog, only slower and with two or three notes instead of four.  It is an easy call to mimic.  And the titmouse does not like to be mimicked!  Within a few minutes, he was in a tree straight over my head.  Not only was he scolding me, he was fluttering his wings to let me, his supposed rival, know that I was encroaching on his territory.

These sorts of outdoor delights come only once a year, and I enjoyed them to the full.  The experience has energized my entire weekend.

See you outdoors,

Dean