Despite what the calendar says, the weatherman, the green hills,
the birds, the budding trees and the blossoming flowers have the
last word
– it’s spring.
Despite what the calendar says, the weatherman, the green hills, the birds, the budding trees and the blossoming flowers have the last word – it’s spring.
I have been walking the hill above our house, measuring spring as I go. The warm weather of the past few weeks has kicked the plants and animals there into frantic action. If the emergence of new life were music, this hillside would be a symphony orchestra. Beneath my feet and over my head, every living thing seems to be on a tight schedule, an irresistible schedule encoded in its DNA.
My hill, like all California hills, is covered with non-native annual grasses that were brought here by the Spanish and have squeezed out the perennial grasses that originally resided here. In spring, they have little time and a lot to do: sprout from seed, grow tall, produce seeds, fertilize their seeds that will green next year’s hills before the desiccating heat of summer. The tight carpet created by annual grasses leaves fewer openings for wildflowers to bloom than the bunch grasses they replaced, but thankfully, the flowers manage to find a few. I see that the milkmaids are all but gone. Now, California buttercups, shooting stars and lots of baby blue-eyes are taking over the hill.
I have learned the songs of most of the local birds. Like the males of other species, they are trying to impress the females. Instead of a fast car and a slick line (Excuse me, have you seen my Congressional Medal of Honor?), birds sing tirelessly. I admire their persistence. I would give up and go home. Walking through the trees, I recognize the tune of many suitors: plain titmouse, northern mockingbird, dark-eyed junco, northern flicker, Chestnut backed chickadee, and White-breasted nuthatch among others.
Several weeks ago, on my first walk along the hill, I brought my binoculars. In the shade of some oaks, I sat awhile, just looking, not knowing what might come my way. After a while, a hummingbird flew by and perched on a leafless branch above me. I fixed my binoculars on it just as it flew to another nearby branch. There, the size of a teacup, was its nest. It was so small and so well camouflaged that I was afraid that if I lowered my binoculars, I would never find it again. She lowered her pinky-sized body onto her eggs and sat. And sat.
Several days later, I returned to check up on things. After some difficulty, I found the nest. Mom was not there, so I waited. When she returned, two tiny beak tips frantically poked above the rim of the nest stretching out to mom for food. A few days later an entire head emerged above the nest when mom returned and today the waiting babies were so big they filled the nest to capacity.
These are Anna’s hummingbirds, our area’s most common hummingbird and the only year-round hummingbird resident. The males have a brilliant red crown and neck that strangely appears and disappears with the slightest change of direction.
That hummingbird’s nest is nearly invisible. I am lucky to have spotted it. It makes me wonder how much I walk past without ever noticing. I see lots of vacant nests in winter’s leafless trees, but rarely do I see them when they are bustling with avian family life. There are certainly thousands of birds’ nests around. How do I miss them?
It’s the old stop-and-smell-the-roses thing. Preoccupied with our busy lives, we spend our time moving fast and looking down. The first time this spring that I stopped, sat and waited, I was rewarded with a special, but common sight.
Soon the green will be brown, the creeks will be dry, and we won’t want to go out in the heat. But for now, things are hopping out there if you stop and look around.
