The last pieces for Three Star Owl‘s Southwest Wings Birding and Nature Festival date slid into the kiln thursday, so no more pinching, coiling, stamping, slipping, scoring, or glazing nares, coverts, hooves, beaks, talons, or TOES again, until after the event.  Meanwhile, here’s a peek at a few things lurking informally around the studio now, waiting to be photo’d, priced, and packed:

New for this event are Javelina salt & pepper shakers and owl whistles.  And there’s a Plethora of Owls in all forms this time, even more than usual.

The Festival is in Sierra Vista (Arizona) at the Windemere Hotel, 5 – 9 August — that’s next week.  If you’d like to drop in, the vendor’s hours are: Thursday, August 6, 10:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m.; Friday, August 7, 10:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.; and Saturday, August 8, 10:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.  Admission is FREE to the vending and exposition area in the hotel Lobby and Conference Rooms.  And, there’s still some room in several of the birding and natural history field trips, too.  Come by and say Hello!

…crankiness to an artform.

…are not a Victorian law firm.

They are delightfully specific bird-related terms: it seems that falconers and ornithologists, like the French, have a different word for everything.

You can talk about a raptor’s “thumb”, meaning the strong digit that in most birds is at the back of the foot, and people will know what you mean.  But there’s a useful Latin term for it, regularly and properly used in both falconry and ornithology: hallux, plural halluces.  Ornithologists have assigned birds’ toes numbers to express foot skeletal structure and toe arrangement, and the counting starts at the hallux: it’s 1.  Used in an informative sentence: “It’s useful to know that if you have a Great horned owl on the glove, and it’s gripped your free hand due to your inattention, ask someone to gently pull its hallux upward to release the grip, avoiding an unpleasant situation involving talons, pain and possible nerve damage.”  Actually, hallux is an anatomical term that refers to our own human big toe, too.  Any word with an X in it ought to be used as much as possible, says I.

That would include the word Retrix, which is a tail feather.  Plural: retrices.  Most birds have ten or twelve, and they are numbered in the order they are shed during a moult, which is from the center of the tail outward: R1 – R6, with the R1s being the two central tail feathers and the R6s being the two outer tail feathers.  Additionally, the two central tail feathers are referred to as the “deck feathers” or, as the French call them, les retrices centrales.  Used in a sentence: “The deck feathers are the first retrices to be moulted out of the tail.”  To learn more about feathers than you wanted to know, check out the Feather Atlas.  (Please remember it’s illegal to collect or own non-game bird feathers, by the way.)

Feak is a verb: feaking describes the action of a bird rubbing or wiping its beak on the perch or branch, usually for cleaning (the beak, not the branch).  Raptors do this after feeding to remove excess matter from the beak.  Songbirds do it as well, including hummingbirds whom I’ve seen feak after slurping at a nectar feeder.  It is a side-to-side motion, like sharpening a knife.  A raptor bends forward to feak, a hummingbird just tucks its chin.  Unlike the words hallux and retrix which are from the Latin, feak is an Anglo-Saxon word, and though it doesn’t have an X, needs to be said often, just to hear the sound it makes. Used in a sentence: “The Summer tanager should have feaked after eating that juicy katydid.” By the way, I think the French word for feak is feak, but I’m not positive.

Falconry is well-stocked with this and other specialist vocabulary, like stoop, warble and rouse, or yarak, haggard and crab — not to mention bate, creance and imp — each of which sounds like a Bleak House Dream Team.

(Photo, Summer tanager, A.Shock)

Late each spring, later than most other neotropical migrants, the Brown-crested flycatchers (Myiarchus tyrannulus) return to our neighborhood (and other places in southern Arizona) from their wintering grounds in Mexico.

They are relatively large tyrant flycatchers, about the size of the more familiar Cardinal, but unlike Cardinals they’re not usually seen on or even terribly close to the ground.  They are Birds of Trees, and favor woodland and riparian areas, as well as the occasional suburban or park setting.  They need trees with trunks large enough to contain generously sized holes, because they’re cavity nesters.  A saguaro will do (a “Crest” once checked out a woodpecker hole in our now defunct saguaro, but didn’t select it), or a cottonwood, or any other tree a good-sized woodpecker like a flicker has excavated a hole in already.  We’ve got Gilded flickers and Gila woodpeckers around, so there are holes big enough for the Brown-cresteds to raise a brood in.  Excellently, the BCFL is one of the few native cavity-nesting passerines able to out-compete Starlings for nest-holes.

As flycatchers, they are also Birds of Air, and feed almost entirely on insects which they catch on the wing.  They’re distinctively vocal, and it’s often easier to detect them by sound than by sight, as they give vigorous rolling brrrts and wheeps from the tops of trees.  In addition, they seem to be the earliest singers of the morning, starting before sunrise with a gentle repetitive song that differs in note and pattern from their daytime vocalizations, but is similar in tone.  Many people find it easier to identify them by sound: Brown-crested flycatchers have a look-alike smaller Myiarchus “cousin” the Ash-throated flycatcher, which is more widespread in arid regions of the southwest but utters different sounds.

Though they arrive late in spring, they also leave earlier than most migrants, and around the middle of August, I find myself listening each morning for the early song of the Brown-crested flycatcher, wondering when they’ll all have flown.

(Sketch book watercolor, A.Shock)

The sky on Saturday night was remarkable.

Somewhere south of the Phoenix area a big storm collapsed, and the gusty winds flowing down off the top of its towering cumulus clouds blasted a well-defined edge of dust that rolled outward for miles.  It’s called a Haboob — fans of the the movie “the Mummy” will know what a Haboob looks like with a scary gaping face digitized onto it — and we get them in the desert during the Monsoon season each summer, without the evil high priest Imhotep’s face on them.

The top picture shows the very moment the storm arrived in our neighborhood. This is looking up at the leading edge of the dust cloud — that’s the peach-colored part of the sky.  The blue is the normal as yet dust-free twilight sky.  The color in these photos is neither enhanced or incorrect — this is really what it looked like for about an hour.

The next picture was shot in the thick of the dust storm, when everything was engulfed by swirling dirt.  The nearby Papago Buttes are barely visible through the murk even though they’re only two blocks away.  For contrast below is a photo of the same butte and the same mesquites next morning, looking more like themselves.

The final photo shows an infamous 2003 Haboob dramatically engulfing the Phoenix suburb of Ahwatukee.

Our little Saturday Haboob was impressive-looking on the ground here, but as far as monsoon events go, it didn’t live up to its own visual drama.  Often these storms are accompanied by destructive winds, and followed by drenching, flooding thunderstorms, but this one brought none of that, at least in our neck of the woods.  We must have been right at the edge of the storm as it breathed its last gust.

(Photos: top three: A.Shock; bottom, from Wikimedia Commons, with a thank you to the  anonymous photo sharer who generously posted it there)

When the Gophersnake made its appearance, I was about to post on Costa’s hummingbirds, because “informal censusing” (= what we see in the yard) indicates that this is the season when the Costa’s hummer population is highest in our Phoenix area yard: we are lousy with Costa’s right now.

I would guess it has something to do with post-breeding population movement, and the fact that there are a lot of YOY (young of the year) out and about.  Right now, at least three of our back yard nectar feeders are being defended by male Costa’s, one of which is an immature bird, still showing just a few purple spangles at the corners of its throat.

These tiny feisty birds definitely fall into the “dinky desert dude” category.  They spend a lot of time in exciting high-speed tail chases, pursuing each other and other larger hummers like Anna’s away from the nectar sources, even in the impressive heat we’ve been experiencing.  In between, they sip intermittently at nectar sources both natural and human-made, using the energy-rich fluid to fuel their aerial gnatting forays which provide them with protein.

For now, the males seem to have quit their flight displays until next breeding season.  But from their favorite perches — often on twigs under the canopies of open trees like palo verde and mesquite — they engage in quiet “singing” which is a descending sibillance so high and thin that some people can’t hear it.  Even if it’s beyond your pitch range, you can always tell if a Costa’s is singing, because it “assumes the position”: a bit hunched, throat very slightly puffed, head forward and oscillating back and forth gently as the notes are emitted, as if to spray the sound evenly in all directions like audible air freshener, so other hummers in the area can hear it.

The top photo shows the typical neckless, puff-ball silhouette of a Costa’s, short-tailed and gray vested.  In this light, the blazing purple of the “Yosemite Sam” mustachioed gorget is not activated, except for a patch behind the eye.  Even without the bright color, the bird is easily identified by the pattern of dark and light, as in the photo on the left, with the white throat and neck contrasting strongly against the dark moustaches.

(Photos: top, Costa’s in yard creosote, A.Shock; bottom, Costa’s in Boyce Thompson mesquite, E.Shock)

…was patrolling our yard yesterday, an overcast Thursday morning.

I was working in the studio and noticed yard birds scolding harshly.  But my brain was busy with clay, and it only spared enough attention to ID the calls — cactus wren, verdin, curve-billed thrasher — and forgot to be curious about what was setting them off.  If you’re really paying attention, sometimes it’s possible to tell from the calls whether it’s a ground predator or an aerial one — hawk, kestrel — and sometimes even if it’s cat or snake. Snake creates the most fury, or panic, and the longest-lasting, loudest scolding.  But it wasn’t until I noticed E heading outside with his camera that I thought to check out the scene.

In this case, it was the local Gophersnake (Pituophis catenifer affinis, the Sonoran Gophersnake), gliding through the dried leaf litter around the citrus trunks.  Although we can’t be sure, I suspect this is the same individual we see periodically, although it’s much longer than it was the first time we saw it a few years ago, swallowing a very young cottontail practically on our doorstep (E was able to get fabulous pictures of the process from capture through constriction through engulfing, but I’m of two minds about posting them).  Thursday’s snake was close to 5 feet long, and robust, although gophers are not as thick as rattlers.  Gophers are Arizona’s longest snake, and can reach 6 feet in length, so this guy has a way to go yet; I’m hoping he’s finding lots of roof rats to help him get there.  Right now there’s a new batch of rabbits, rock squirrels and quail around, and these along with bird eggs, other snakes and lizards would all be on his menu.

He was moving slowly around the yard, intent on any prey items he might come across, but also moving toward a daytime hiding place, so E was able to get lots of pictures.  At one point, we got a little close for the snake’s comfort, and it gave us its best impression of a defensive rattler: it pulled up into an s-curve, and gaped its pink mouth, hissing and making a mock rattling sound (photo above).

This picture also shows the amazing coloration of the gopher snake: a series of mottled chocolate brown patches and spots on a creme-colored ground, grading into a bold dark brown and yellow striped tail.  This rattler imitation is both a blessing and a curse for the snake.  No doubt it discourages many potential threats like coyotes, but it also causes people to mistake them for actual rattlers, with unfortunate results for the innocent and effective rodent-hunter.  The display was impressive; we gave him a little space, and he quickly resumed his slow perusal of the yard.  Eventually it took cover under a big quartz boulder by a fence, and that was that, until the next time.

For more info, click here to link to the useful Reptiles and Amphibians of Arizona website.

(Photos, E. Shock)

Days are getting short until Three Star Owl‘s third appearance at Southwest Wings Birding and Nature Festival, and I’m in a groove, making pieces for the event.  As posted, I’ve been making mugs, and also owls.  Lots of owls.  Even more owls than usual.

So recently I turned to the hairy side of Sonoran fauna, and have been doing Javelinas.  Javelina items are popular with Three Star Owl clients, both Arizonans and visitors to the desert.  Interestingly, it’s often people who have lived their lives in the less urban areas of AZ who are NOT fans of the rooting, tusk-bearing mammal: they may have grown up thinking of them as pesky neighbors, and are weary of battling them over landscaping, gardens, and garbage, or are tired of sewing up the hound.

But in general, javelinas have lots of fans.  I was thrilled when a herd temporarily moved into our neighborhood a few years ago. They were flooded out of their usual habitat during a rainy year when the Salt River swamped the Goodding’s willow woods growing up in its channelized banks.  They did a bit of damage in yards, including ours, but I also still remember the thrill of hearing clicking sounds coming up the street, and looking up to see a mama with two quite young piglets following her!

Javelinas are not true pigs: they are pig-like mammals in the peccary family, Tayassuidae, and have a New World origin as opposed to pigs and swine, family Suidae, which originated in the Old World.  Our javelinas are also called Collared Peccaries, and live in a wide geographical range and a variety of habitats in the arid Southwestern U.S.  There are three other species of peccary in the Americas, which live throughout Central and South America: White-lipped, Chacoan, and Giant Peccaries.

Three Star Owl will be offering Javelina candle-holders and salt and pepper shakers for your table.  Here’s a colored pencil drawing of a pair of shakers in progress.  It’s not the drawing that’s “unfinished” it’s the clay objects, which are in two stages of completion, still in wet clay.  One is modeled and textured, the other not yet detailed or textured.  The shaker holes are the nostrils at the end of their snouts, and each one is re-fillable through neat rubber plugs in their bellies.

And here is a larger candle-holder, completed. The salt and peppers will have the same coloration, matte slips and oxides, with a little sparkle in the eye.

(Photos: top, javelina dirt-napping at the Arizona Sonora Desert Museum, E.Shock; javelina in our front garden, munching spring wildflowers, A.Shock; colored pencil sketch on recycled, speckled paper, A.Shock; Three Star Owl javelina candle holder, A.Shock)

Early Monday morning I nearly stepped on a raccoon kit.  We both came around a wall at the same time, from opposite directions.  Fortunately, no contact was made: the kits are well-grown now.  Also, the Hairhen is very watchful, so we were all very careful to not create an incident.  She and all four kits were headed back to the Fan Palm where the family holes up invisibly in the spiny fronds during the day, after a night marauding.

It was the second raccoon Close Encounter in as many days — the night before last, the Hairhen spied an ENORMOUS fat Palo Verde Beetle above a window in the studio.  She attempted to climb the aging nylon screen to fetch it down, but the UV-weakened fibers couldn’t support her weight, and she slid back down, shredding the screen on the way.  I was on the other side of the window at the time, just a foot away (the glass was closed) unable to do anything but watch strong-nailed raccoon hands wreak destruction.

I wish she’d managed to snatch the high fiber protein snack — these giant beetles are very destructive, laying their eggs in the roots of Palo Verde trees, where their grubs (which are way too large to be appealing in even the slightest way) eat their way to maturity, doing considerable damage.  (See excellent photos and read more about Palo Verde Borer Beetles here at the fine Myrmecos Blog.)

Above is a photo of our yard Hairhen and two kits in the Palo Verde/Aleppo Pine complex. (Photo A. Shock)