Hey tweets, It's c-c-c-cold out there. I got caught in a sleet storm out at
the Fill this afternoon and had to feel really sorry for the poor Anna's
hummingbird who has been guarding his territory so assiduously all winter.
This must be one of his harder days, just on account of the cold and wet.
He seems to be doing fine, otherwise. He was sticking his tongue out and
licking his bill, so I assume he was snacking on the myriad of little bugs
flying around. Plus, all his rivals had to good sense to stay under cover,
so he was probably pretty cozy, with his feathers all foofed up. Cozier
than me, anyway. I was freezing. However, nothing daunts a real birder,
right? Besides, you never know what's waiting around the next corner - it
could be something really new or beautiful. And there was. On the main pond
was a gorgeous male canvasback in breeding plumage, along with a hooded
male merganser, who was opening and shutting his crest for who knows what -
there was certainly no female in sight. Practice maybe? Muscle building?

The male yellow-shafted northern flicker was examinig holes in the dead
beaver trees. I wonder if he's planning on nesting? He certainly is
establishing plenty of hole sites, including one under the eaves of the
Urban Hort building.

The marsh wrens are back and singing, though I didn't see their little
bodies today. Most birds that sing that much are doing it to attract mates,
drive off rivals and keep their territory sacrosanct. But marsh wrens are
well known to sing in order to drive birders crazy. You can creep up on a
patch of cattails that are perfectly silent, and then, just as soon as you
make your presence known by stepping on a dead stick, the marsh wrens begin
their schtick. No matter how hard you look, you can't find one. When you
finally do see one, there he is, hanging onto a cattail in plain sight,
making you question your birding skills. I mean, where was he before?

Luckily, just so you know, I've been taking the Seattle Audubon Master
Birding class since February. I'm improving my skills, but even more
significant, in two years I'm going to get a certificate that says I'm a
master birder. Then when those pesky marsh wrens sing completely hidden
from view, I'll be able to say, "Well, I can't see any birds at all, but
that's okay because I'm a master birder."

Would you tweeters out there like to hear the occasional report of the
master birder class? Perhaps I shouldn't be talking out of school, but I
can't resist. On Wednesday night, Bud Anderson was the guest lecturer. He
brought along his female kestrel, who was breathtakingly beautiful. She was
very patient with all of us staring at her, but then when Bud started
showing slides of various other raptors, she went crazy, flapping and
calling. She didn't like the red-tailed hawk in the first slide at all.

Anyway, at one point in the lecture Bud asked the class who thought they
were intermediate birders and who considered themselves advanced. I thought
about that for awhile and decided I would have to call myself advanced. I
mean, even though I don't always see those darn marsh wrens, I've got
skills. Right? Well, only three of us in the room were rash enough to claim
advanced status. Rash is the correct word, too. Bud made us stand up and
come to the front, where he laid out tail feathers from various raptors and
told us to identify species, sex and age for each one. Years ago I remember
my older brother telling me that the first thing you learn in the Army is,
never raise your hand for any reason. There we were, we advanced birders,
totally puzzled about these tail feathers. I think in the end we got two
right, and that was more by luck than by skill. A humbling experience, not
that that's anything new for me in that class - I think in the first
session on the 20-bird slide quiz at the beginning of the class, I called a
starling a juvenile robin. Oh well. - Connie, Seattle

csidles at mail.isomedia.com