A bird murder most fowl

National Observer

4 days ago

They showed up singing their hearts out about six weeks ago. He, with his red cap and chest, was flashier than she was in her understated brown and white stripes. Were they purple finches or house finches? We couldn't say for sure.
Audubon's range guide suggests either is possible and the writeup said even seasoned birders sometimes struggle to tell them apart. For days, we'd spot the pair perched on the arbor, unfussed by our attention.
One day, the male arrived at his usual spot, with a piece of straw, no doubt pilfered from our garden mulch. They were building a nest somewhere nearby, we thought. Sweet.
We didn't know where until my husband walked out onto the back deck one afternoon and startled one of the birds in mid-construction. When he looked up, he saw the nest perched atop a post under the awning. It was about six inches wide, perfectly round and looked complete.
Shortly after, the female took up residence in the nest where she sat patiently, her head with watchful eyes sticking up above the rim. Our morning ritual evolved to include checking on the nest while the coffee was brewing. When we drew the blinds at night, we said goodnight. We felt invested in the hatch, even though we knew full well not all breeding attempts succeed.
Songbirds are having a tough go of it; about half the world's bird population is declining. In Canada, habitat loss and pesticides are taking a toll in the countryside, and in cities, collisions with building windows and predatory house cats are the biggest enemy. Add climate change into the mix — which is predicted to adversely affect two-thirds of all birds in North America — and the deck seems seriously stacked against them.
Humans have been fascinated by birds since prehistoric times. The earliest known image of a bird was discovered painted on the wall of the Lascaux cave in France. And there is every indication the interest has held, not just because we generally enjoy watching animals and nature, but in particular marvel at birds gifted with wings and flight.
Interest in birds and bird watching, or birding as aficionados call it, had a renaissance during the pandemic as a safe, outdoor activity that anyone with good eyesight and patience can enjoy. Birding is one of the fastest-growing hobbies in the United States and is a popular pastime in Canada as well — in 2023 one in 10 Canadian households reported being bird watchers or photographers. During the spring migration, Point Pelee National Park has an annual bird festival and BC has the Greater Vancouver Bird Celebration. And every Christmas, Canadians brave the weather for the Audubon Christmas Bird Count. Victoria, with its mild winters, often tops the chart for participation and number of species recorded and has taken to calling itself the country's 'birding capital.'
During the first year of the pandemic, I started feeding a rather large crow who would perch on the back porch railing with an expectant air. I'd read a story about a little girl in Seattle who regularly fed crows that brought her trinkets in return and I wanted to see if my crow might someday bear a gift. I've tossed a lot of dog kibble out the back door since then — my big friend and his extended family still show up most days — but the relationship has been decidedly one-sided.
All I have received for my troubles is the occasional mess and guilt over a cold-blooded murder. During the first summer of the pandemic, my so-called crow friends attacked a hummingbird nest in a rhododendron in our front yard and pecked two chicks to death. I had a niggling suspicion the crows twigged to their existence because they saw us obsessively watching the babies. And still I fed the big crow and his crew, because it's hard to resist demands from a bird that follows you home on your dog walk and sits on the railing waiting for a handout.
Now, with the finch nest right above the back railing, I feared more trouble coming. I probably don't have to tell you what happened next.
The finch chicks hatched and thrived. One morning, after a feeding, the largest of the three stood on the side of the nest, flapping fully formed wings. I called my husband over. 'It's going to launch!' We watched as the little finch took flight, instinctively darting into the protection of a large evergreen nearby. The big crow gave chase, disappeared into the branches for a bit, but came out empty-handed. Later that day, we returned home to find the perfect nest with its soft moss lining, pulverized on the back deck. The remaining two babies were nowhere in sight.
'Murderers,' my husband muttered. We'd chosen sides, favouring our tiny finch underdogs over their aggressive opponents. The next day the big crow came to its usual spot, acting as though nothing untoward had happened. And in a way, it hadn't. My big crow was really only guilty of being a crow.
I cracked and threw him some kibble, hoping that somewhere out in the big world, one fledgling finch was still singing.