Friday was cold, at least until you broke into a run. Taking a breather at the top of an embankment, and peering down to a creek recently freed from its covering of snow and ice, we were joined by a Chickadee.
It alighted on a nearby tree, curious, considering us. It then moved to a closer tree, still inquisitive, about a metre away, before making its way straight for me. A brazen flight, to end perhaps on my head, or shoulder, had I not retreated, and the bird then done the same. It returned to its previous perch, and then flew away.
When animals lose their fear of humans, I’m told, it can be a sign of desperation. The small bird certainly looked rougher than some I’ve seen recently. Naturally, then, I imagine it to be starving. Reason lends credence to the idea; the remaining snow cover makes foraging difficult at this time of year, and the few bird-feeders upon which these Chickadees might depend are probably not as richly stocked this year, due to deep drifts and ice that makes refilling them a chore. Certainly that was a hungry Chickadee.
We returned home, only to head out again, this time with toasted sunflower seeds, a few slices of twelve-grain bread. Soon we reached the same hillside.
“Make that chickadee sound, Ror,” Jennie said.
“What sound?”
“That one you made.”
Helpless — and no doubt ridiculous — chirpings went unanswered. Brisk winds made it hard to whistle. And so we waited, palms upturned and extended. A beggar’s gesture, though it is we who would give. The winds persisted, and no birds came.
A grim hypothesis: “Maybe it already starved to death.”
“I thought that too.”
