For the majority of enthusiasts, however, birdwatching simply provides a personal and very special entrée into the natural world. 

                                                         Graeme Gibson

Day 1

Faint first light, swirls of yellow and orange edging above the southern horizon, the excitement of an early morning winter sit spot— this all felt familiar.  The difference was I didn’t have to layer up, drive on icy roads, and trudge through deep snow to get to my destination.  Instead, I was seated in my office, wearing a pair of comfy old sweat pants and a flannel shirt. I had a thermos of freshly brewed Brazilian coffee at the ready on my desk.   This was going to be an inside, stay at home, and stay warm sit spot.

I had several purposes in mind.  First, I wanted to explore, hopefully verify, and then share the idea that you can sit inside your house or in your yard and still have a deep, nature-connecting experience.  You don’t have to venture out to some far away, isolated, idyllic wilderness location.  Just set aside an hour, sit quietly by your window, on your porch, or in your yard, and fully observe nature around you.

Another objective was to combine a sit spot and a FeederWatch bird tallying session. Project FeederWatch is a citizen science initiative administered by the Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology. Thousands of participants all over the US and Canada count birds at their feeders for two consecutive selected days separated by at least a five day interval and then submit the data online to the Lab.  FeederWatch season runs from November to early April. The data collected has been extremely valuable for scientists tracking trends in winter bird populations along with documenting the occasional and exciting irruptions of finches from the far north.  Participants benefit by becoming better birders.

Even though I have been a loyal FeederWatcher for 24 seasons, most of my observations have occurred in brief intervals—while reading, sipping coffee, sending emails, or just checking on my feeders as I walk by the window.  I wanted to see what it would be like to get up well before sunrise, watch the birding day begin, and observe nature unfolding at and beneath my bird feeders.  Would I see more?  Would I learn something new? Would doing a sit spot deepen my experience?

First Visitors

The temperature was 7 below zero with a winter weather advisory in effect, the kind of conditions when the birds would need the supplemental food available at my array of feeders.  I peered through the storm window into the dim gray light.  Something moved beneath the feeder, a rabbit scanning the snowy, icy ground, nibbling seeds, hopping a few feet, searching, nibbling more—a member of the night shift cleaning up.  I don’t think of rabbits as seed eaters, but free food is free food.

The rabbit hopped away as a deer stepped warily into the scene, a doe, with a thick dark brown coat, lovely big brown eyes, long delicate ears swiveling to scan for sounds, slender dancer legs, and neat black hooves.  Seemingly feeling safe the doe dropped her head and began to vacuum up the seeds on the ground.  I had ventured out earlier to spread a cup of mixed bird seed on the ground. Well, that would be all gone.

The doe found a remnant of frozen suet, bit off a chunk, chewed it thoroughly with her molars, grabbed the rest and chewed it up.  Once again, I don’t think about deer eating beef fat, but in winter any food is good food.

I gazed at the deer, at its thick, just-right coat for winter.  Its flag tail was tucked tightly to its butt for a bit of extra warmth. The doe looked up, gazed in my direction.  I felt that she knew I was there.  We were only 15 feet apart, separated by a thin pane of glass.  But I was sitting still, my intentions peaceful and respectful, and it was hungry.  It bowed its head and resumed feeding.

Avian Arrivals

I watched the daylight slowly, steadily increase; saw the details of my surroundings come into focus.  I loved witnessing this turning of darkness into light, this daily reveal of the world of forms, the tree trunks, the shrubs, the weeds, an old stonewall, all set against a back drop of snow covered ground.

It was 7:16 only 10 minutes until sunrise and still no birds. Then, in the low branches of a cherry tree I spotted two small birds perching—dark-eyed juncos, ground feeders, waiting for the deer to depart.  Sure enough, as soon as the deer stepped away, the juncos fluttered down to the ground and began to pick for seeds.  Soon, two more landed, another three, then four more, a winter flock foraging.

It was fitting that the juncos were the first to arrive.  They are, according to data collected by Project FeederWatch, the most common feeder bird in the Mid-Atlantic region.  They are also a perfect winter bird, slate gray on top, pale pinkish bill, gray breast, white belly, and white edged tail feathers that flash when they fly. 

These juncos were on their version of a southern vacation.  They breed in the far north in Canada and Alaska, and in the high elevations in the US.  They always seem to appear just before the start of the FeederWatch and head back north when the season ends. 

A female cardinal flew in, landed amidst the juncos, searched for seeds, then flew up and perched on a black oil sunflower seed feeder, plucked out seeds, cracked them open, and extracted the seeds within, a prodigious feat accomplished with its stout nut cracking bill.  A bright red male cardinal, a visual highlight, flew in, perched on an adjacent feeder, and began to feed on the protein and fat rich seeds.

A chickadee, a backyard regular, fluttered in, landed on a feeder, plucked out a seed and flew off to eat it.  Pluck a seed and fly away to eat it, that’s the way chickadees feed. Through the glass I heard its familiar and cheerful chick-a-dee-dee call.  Then there were three chickadees flying in, plucking seeds, fluttering off, returning for more.

More Arrivals

It was 7:35. The first rays of warm, copper-colored sunshine illuminated the tree trunks in front of me.  The world of color returned, the tan goldenrod stems, the gray tree trunks, and the dark green bittersweet vines. I could almost feel the warmth of those first beams of sunshine.

More birds arrived, a red-bellied woodpecker and a downy woodpecker, both choosing a suet feeder, drilling away for chunks of fat and seed. I saw two tree sparrows amidst the juncos, small sparrows with reddish caps, delicate brown plumage and a dark splotch on their breast.  Three white-throated sparrows joined the growing crowd of ground feeders. These sparrows, with their bright white throats, yellow swatch above their eyes and their lovely whistled Old Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody springtime song are a personal favorite.  Interestingly, over my years of FeederWatching they have become regular winter visitors.

Mourning doves, plump, rounded, delicately marked plumage of beige and tan and brown, fluttered down from the trees, 5, then 7, then 15 in all.   Some fed on the ground while others perched on the hopper feeders.  The doves on the ground waddled around ducking down and plucking seeds in a very pigeon like manner.  A trio of starlings arrived.  A gray tufted titmouse appeared.  A pair of house finches landed on the sunflower feeder and fed steadily.

I heard a volley of loud jay, jay, jay calls as trio of blue jays buzzed in and landed on the feeders.  The jays can be feeder bullies, pushing the other birds away and squabbling among themselves. I had loaded the peanut feeder and now watched the peanut-loving jays fly down and deftly snatch peanuts displaying astounding eye-bill-wing coordination.  Peanut in bill they would zoom off to hide the treasure.

As I sat watching the birds comes and go, the time extending well past an hour, certain impressions came to mind.  I sensed an atmosphere of mutual reassurance. The birds, a variety of species, shared the space peacefully and seemed to gather comfort and a sense of security from each other’s presence.

They also shared the task of constant vigilance with an eye out for Cooper’s hawks that have learned to stalk bird feeders.  On several occasions the birds scattered suddenly.  But no hawk was seen and gradually the birds filtered back down.

I saw what I called the personality of each bird, the unique nature that came to expression before my eyes.  The juncos travel in winter flocks, calling softly back and forth to stay connected.  The cardinals travel in pairs staying in touch with tink, tink, tink calls.  The blue jays travel in boisterous family clans.  The woodpeckers come singly.  The chickadees flitted in and out. Each bird seemed totally free to express its true nature.  I wondered, “What is my true nature?”

Adaptability was on display.  The juncos, normally ground feeders, occasionally popped up to the hopper feeders where the seeds were more plentiful.  The blue jays had figured out how to snatch the prized peanuts from the feeder.  The starlings found the feeder filled with meal worms.  The chickadees sampled all food sources, sunflower seeds, mixed seeds, and suet. The titmouse snatched a peanut. The deer fed on seeds and suet.  Do I share this animal adaptability?

As I watched it seemed that the birds came and went in waves.  A dozen doves fed, then faded away, then drifted back down from the trees.  The finches, now six of them fed steadily, disappeared, then minutes later reappeared.  The blue jays came and went; the chickadees too.

Watching these waves and pulses of life that I sensed were not random, but somehow purpose driven, I felt a connection, felt part of these waves of being.

Day Two

A winter storm warning in effect, steady, heavy snow falling, a fine day for FeederWatching.  No deer this morning.  At 7:09 I heard the soft stip, stip, stip calls of dark-eyed juncos, the earliest of the early birds approaching.  Suddenly, in the dim pre-dawn light little gray shapes fluttered down to the ground, five juncos, the return of life into a gray and white lifeless world. Watching the juncos I felt a tiny jump of joy.

I heard tink tink tink calls, the companion calls of northern cardinals.  A female and two bright red males landed on the feeder and began to munch seeds.  The bright red cardinals contrasted with pure white snow, more bright life returning to the world.

Three chickadees arrived and resumed their snatch and fly and return routine.  I studied one as it grabbed a black sunflower seed in its tiny beak and flew away. Soon the doves appeared.  I watched them flutter gracefully down from the trees to the ground—doves of peace, doves of delicate beauty. 

The two tree sparrows returned.  I watched them carefully, noticed the buff and tan plumage on their back, the bright white wing bars, and in particular the straight long tail, a true sparrow tail, a detail I hadn’t noticed before. Nearby, a white-throated sparrow searched for seeds.

I was glad that I had returned for day two.  Maybe yesterday had been a practice day, a work through the novelty day.  Somehow I was more tuned in today, was seeing and feeling more.

I heard crows cawing.  A red-bellied woodpecker flew in, its name a misnomer as the bright orange-red plumage is on its head and throat.   The woodpecker displayed its assertive nature by shooing a starling from a suet feeder.

A petite downy woodpecker landed on another suet feeder. I looked with appreciation at its black and white ladder-pattern back and the bright splotch of scarlet on the back of its head.  A bigger, but very similar appearing hairy woodpecker flew in and tried its luck at a mesh sunflower seed feeder.

Suddenly, a new bird appeared; small, long tailed, russet on top, tan breast and a distinctive beige eyebrow, a Carolina wren.  A busy bird, that picked away on one suet feeder and switched to another, tail bobbing, moving with purpose and intensity.  This wren is another personal favorite perhaps because it sings its cheerful teakettle, teakettle, teakettle song all twelve months of the year.

An Aviary

There must have been more than forty birds on the feeders and on the ground, little sparrows and juncos and chickadees, medium sized blue jays, starlings and cardinals and the bigger mourning doves.  I saw them hop around on the ground, jockey for position at the feeders, and flutter in and out of the trees.  I felt as if I was visiting an aviary.

The birds fed, busily, but not frantically.  They seemed to take this winter weather in stride as if it was just another day. Clearly they hadn’t heard the dire storm warnings, the urgent admonitions to rush out and buy bread and milk that had filled the airwaves and media the last two days.

Two gray squirrels scampered down a tree trunk.  One, its fur dappled with white snowflakes climbed to the end of a branch.  The second followed.   The first jumped to another branch and ran back to the trunk of another tree.  The second followed.  The first ran down to the ground near the feeders.  The second followed closely.  The first ran off and the second followed.  It looked like intense courtship behavior, which was clearly more important to them than feeding, another example of business as usual amidst a winter storm.

I watched the snow falling.  It became heavy, then lighter, then almost stopped; then picked up and in a few minutes was heavy again.  More waves I thought, waves that I was able to witness by sitting still.  Surely, the Inuit had a name for each degree of snowfall and probably one for the fluctuating intensity.

Rats! My coffee was cold.  Once again I had been sitting for more than an hour.  The time flew and I felt fortunate to have seen the activity of another day beginning in nature.  I set my tally sheet aside.  Duty to science done I headed to the kitchen to prepare a hot breakfast and brew a fresh cup of coffee.

As I headed the kitchen I felt a deep sense of satisfaction.   Greater depth, enhanced acuity, and a heightened appreciation had been added to my FeederWatch experience.  As Graeme Gibson wrote when watching birds…”you never know what to expect.  You might even discover some unanticipated aspect of self…”

These FeederWatch sessions were conducted on January 16 and 17, 2022.

For more information on Project Feederwatch click on this link: https://feederwatch.org/

The quotes are from Graeme Gibson’s delightful book, The Bedside Book of Birds: An Avian Miscellany.

You can read about more sit spots and wanderwalks on this blog and in my book The Stillness of the Living Forest:  A Year of Listening and Learning available through Shanti Arts Publications and on Amazon.com.  Links below:

The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning: Harvey, John: 9781947067592: Amazon.com: Books

The Stillness of the Living Forest, John Harvey (shantiarts.co)