Yes, I realize that this is a very easy Spot the Bird.  Although it was hiding among the lower branches of a mesquite, the bird is very easy to spot, here in the photo.  But, driving past, not so easy.  And it doesn’t think it’s easy to spot.  The bird, a Greater Roadrunner, thinks it is well hidden, lurking like light leaking through leaves, looking for lizards.

<< Greater Roadrunner (photo A.Shock)

I spotted this bird in our neighborhood, where it’s been around recently, causing me to hope it’s taken up residence.  Go ahead, click to enlarge.  It’s even easier to spot.

They’re aware of you!!  It’s International Vulture Awareness Day, so look alive…

<< Turkey vulture, Cathartes aura.  (Photo A.Shock)

Please to note the Pervious Nostril! Click here for more information.

This isn’t a short-billed hummer, it’s just that the resolution on a zoom photo wasn’t up to capturing the thin bill against the rough-textured block wall.  Still, pretty good for a phone camera. (photo by A.Shock)

This morning, I found a golden egg, high up in a tree.

Nestled into the rough bark of our backyard mesquite, a magical bird had laid a golden egg.  This was excellent: what a windfall! — my fortune was secured, if only I could reach it.

But it was too far over my head, so I had to satisfy myself with longing for its golden curves through binoculars.

And guess what, it wasn’t an egg at all, but some type of -quat or other: kum-, or perhaps lo-. Yes, that was what it was: a small orange fruit, probably a loquat since a neighbor has a tree, wedged into somewhere safe by a bird, or maybe a squirrel, to be retrieved later.

Who would do such a thing, hiding a golden treasure in plain sight?  The jammer would have to have sufficient strength, beak/jaw gape, toe-grasp, cleverness and agility to handle hauling a small fruit into a tree, and stashing it on a vertical trunk.  There are several candidates, but I strongly suspect the Curve-billed thrashers, who have just fledged their ravenous brood and are working incessantly, combing every crevice in the yard to feed their greedy-gaped offspring.  These industrious foragers will eat anything, seed, suet, bug, or fruit.  And they have an eye for treasure, just as golden as loquats.

(All images A.Shock).

This morning my foraging strategy was to cook oat bran, spangle it with almonds, and sweeten it a little with agave nectar.  This left the sink full of dishes.  Someone else’s foraging strategy — a fox? a coyote? — was to dig out pocket mice burrows, hoping for some warm, moist, furry, squeaking protein.  This left loose dirt and awkward footing under the lines when I went to hang out the wet laundry.

Another foraging strategy was to hit the hummingbird feeders as soon as the sun was up.  Hummers and woodpeckers — both Gila and Gilded Flicker — are the usual habitués, but since around the 20th of May Hooded Orioles (Icterus cucullatus) have also been sipping nectar at the feeders.  They may have been in the neighborhood from time immemorial, but this is the first breeding season we’ve been aware of them in our yard, other than as infrequently seen migrants.  So, I’m excited.  So excited that I’ve done two things: one, put up a purpose-made oriole feeder (like the hummer feeders we use, but bigger, oriole-sized, and orange), and two, inflict you with the following two barely adequate photos, from my digital point-and-shoot.

Hooded orioles (Photos A.Shock) >>

Yes, these are not great pictures, but as I say, I’m excited to be infested with orioles, and they’re the best pictures I’ve managed so far.  So here they are. The birds are both shy and busy — they tend to go from one feeder to the other (these are hummingbird feeders in the photos) after less than 10 seconds on each one, and so are a tough target.

I’ve only seen a male at our feeder one time, when three birds arrived all at once (perhaps a family?).  Unlike the subtle gray and pale-yellow females, the males are what we think of as oriole-y: a blazing golden yellow, with black wings and tail, white wing bars, and a black mask and bib.

<< In this photo (by www.naturespicsonline.com) you can see a male on a mesquite.  Hooded Orioles love to build their woven, pendulous nests high in palms and other trees, so high and inaccessible (to humans) that most biologists tend to look up at from the ground and proclaim “Yup, that’s a hooded oriole nest!”: for a not un-common bird, very little info exists on their nesting habits, or any of their habits, actually.  (Read more about Hooded oriole’s natural history, listen to sounds, see more images at Cornell Lab’s All About Birds here).  If you think of these orioles as I do, as golden birds with black parts, “hooded” makes less sense than “masked”.  But if you think of them as black birds — and orioles are in a taxonomic sense Blackbirds, or Icterids, related to blackbirds, bobolinks, meadowlarks, caciques, and grackles, to name a few — if you think of them as black birds with golden bits, including a golden hood, then their name makes more sense.  Check out the photo of the male again, with new eyes.

Back to foraging strategy: orioles eat insects, nectar and fruit.  So, like hummers, they use the nectar ports on feeders, but as in the photo on the right above) “our” female/s seem to prefer hanging upside down to drink the sugary drips left by the swinging, sloppy woodpeckers.  At this time of year, when the hummer feeders are busy with the new crop of young birds, and adults feeding themselves and nestlings, this can lead to a back-up of scolding hummingbirds who usually approach to drink only after the larger birds are done.

Orioles also eat fruit, and I had some past-their-prime oranges from our tree that I halved and impaled on a twig above the feeder — the orioles and woodpeckers cleaned them out, leaving only the skin with the interior membranes perfectly intact.  Right now, there’s a watermelon on the kitchen counter waiting to be cut up whose sweet rind I intend to share.  BTW, if you want to put out a nectar feeder for orioles, oriole nectar is 6-to-one parts water to sugar (hummer nectar is sweeter, at 4-to-one water to sugar).  As with hummer food, bring water to boil, add sugar and stir until liquid is clear, bring back to a brief boil, let cool with a lid on, and fill feeders.  Even if you don’t have orioles, woodpeckers will drink this mixture, too.  And it may take some of the congestion off your hummer feeders.

This time of year, the local Turkey Vultures roost on the rocks and in the tall eucalypts’ tops along Queen Creek.  By twilight they’ve called it a day, and have found their places, high overhead where they’ll be safe from most predators, dreaming of whatever odiferous carnage vultures dream of.  Unlike most hawks, many vultures are gregarious, both at mealtime and bedtime.  Sometimes Turkey Vultures roost in such large numbers that if there’s a breeze you can smell them, their plumage exuding a soury-gastric smell I grew familiar with when handling a turkey vulture or two for school-education programs back in the day.

Being creatures of the sunlight — often seen extending their wings to the warming, drying, disinfecting, vitamin producing rays of the sun (left) — vultures are not generally associated with nocturnal celestial bodies the way owls or nightjars are.  But, above is a photo of one back-lit by the moon, the gibbous globe behind it looking like a cranium picked as bare of covering as the vulture’s own red, wrinkled scalp.  Goodnight, sweet scavenger.

(Both photos E.Shock; top, vulture in eucalyptus with moon, Boyce Thompson Arboretum; bottom, vulture on Cardón in Baja Sur)

…and other creatures of shift and change.

The day began with a coyote, and an oriole. The coyote we encountered in front of our house, at the start of our early morning walk toward the neaby desert park. It was on its end of the day commute — on the way from our street where it had likely been marauding for spare cat food and spare cats, back to the neighboring butte <<, where its family lives. This time of year the desert dogs are very much in evidence: the butte “goes off” every time a fire engine roars up the surrounding streets, especially in the early or late hours of the night. In the dark the porous rock seems to emit howls and yelps of a number of coyotes, and sometimes the yips of a local gray fox or two.

The cheeky Bullock’s oriole we saw as a brilliant orange flash overhead against the early blue sky, is also a migrant, headed to its breeding grounds uphill from the low desert. This bird might have been close to the end of its journey to cottonwoods somewhere in one of the riparian corridors of Arizona’s mid-elevation waterways and lakes, like the Verde Valley or Lake Roosevelt. It flew scolding out of our palo verde and we didn’t see it again. (Photo of male Bullock’s oriole by Kevin Cole from Wikipedia Commons)

The day ended with migration, too, but of a different sort. Friday night Three Star Owl was part of a trunk show hosted by Tuttibella Designs (thanks Teresa!), and during the evening, several items migrated away from the home territory to new nests: including an owl jar with a continuously swiveling head, a blue raven mug, some hummingbirds-of-AZ-ware, and an octopus mug. May they bring their new caretakers much pleasure!

>> Three Star Owl Beastie Ware (iPhone photo & mugs, A.Shock)

Finally, in a true stretch of the migratory theme that also has to do with acceptance, Three Star Owl has finally wandered into the milling herds of merchants who take credit cards. This has been a grudging and lengthy journey with what I hope will be a satisfying and stable ending, in which submission to technology and its costs brings benefits to everyone. And fortunately, so far, so good!

This time of year the world is pregnant with nests full of eggs, tiny cottontails hopping and hiding in the yard, fledgling birds following their parents food-begging insistently, new yellow-green leaves and catkins on the mesquite trees, and glorious cactus blooms.

<< Praying mantis egg-case on a Palo Verde twig (photo E.Shock). >> close-up of a mesquite catkin (photo A.Shock)

But as this acceleration of generation increases, we see another side of abundance: broken eggs on the ground, young birds not experienced enough to stay out of the street, small mammals learning the hard way about the swimming pool, an adult gopher snake swallowing a tiny cottontail.

Spring is a scavenger’s prime-time. We’ve been watching an Inca Dove carcass decompose under the tangerine tree. In the dry desert, this isn’t a grisly thing: if not enjoyed by raccoons, foxes, or feral cats, the soft parts are quickly consumed by the local scuttling scavengers, usually ants or dermestid beetles and the like. Inca Doves are small, anyway — there’s not much to them, and small bodies don’t have time to bloat, liquefy, or smell very much.

>> Inca dove skeleton (photo A.Shock)

Decomposition is short and if not sweet, at least efficient. What was an intact dove carcass lying in the leaf litter a couple of days ago was, by yesterday, an articulated partial skeleton. The head was gone, but the ribs were still festooned with a few feathers, and the pelvis dangled two femurs and a foot. The ants’ tidy de-fleshing revealed a possible cause of death invisible to us before: egg-binding. Look below the rib-cage under the vertebrae and pelvis, and you can see an intact egg, cracked but still heavy with its contents, in place in the abdominal cavity.

<< Here’s a side-view. The large blade-shaped bone on the right is the little dove’s keel, or breast-bone; the egg sits snugly — perhaps a little too snugly — under the tiny pelvis.

I don’t have my own photo of an Inca Dove — although they’re common in our yard, they’re camera-shy, at least in my experience. But if you need the reassurance of a living image, or more info about Inca Doves, click here, for the Cornell Lab of Ornithology entry on the species.

And just to sweeten the pot because after all it is the holiday season, here’s a photo I posted last spring, of two terribly tiny bunnies snuggled into the form their mother scraped out for them. Go ahead; click to enlarge to see their tiny fluffy details. It was either this or one of the gopher snake eating a baby cottontail, but I think I’ll save that for next Easter.

>> two infant cottontails stashed in a form (photo A.Shock)

To the right is the photo key to the Rock wren of the current Spot the Bird. Rock wrens rock one of my favorite Latin names in the bird world (along with Upupa epops, the hoopoe): Salpinctes obsoletus. According to Choate, the name comes from Greek salpinctes, “a trumpeter” and Latin obsoletus, “indistinct”, referring to its ringing voice and drab plumage. These contradictory traits explain why the little bird is often heard before it’s seen.  Some of you who wrote to tell me you found it said that after not seeing it for a while “it just suddenly popped out of the picture”.  That’s the way it tends to happen in person with these guys, too.

Below is a rock wren up close, singing its song. You can see its long, de-curved bill, useful for probing rocks and crevices for insects and spiders.  It’s also good for carrying and manipulating small rocks: Rock wrens construct a pavement of tiny flat stones and pebbles leading up to their nest, which is concealed in a hole or crack in a rock.  No one (except the wrens) knows why they do this.  (<< photo E.Shock, taken at Fremont Saddle in the Superstition mountains) One thing the beak does not do is take up water: Rock wrens are thought to get all their moisture through their prey, and don’t drink even when water is available.

Speaking of water, E would like me to add that the rocks in the top photo, along Castle Hotsprings Road, are significantly hydrothermally altered.  You know, subjected to intense heat in a moist environment, either at depth, or nearer the surface, as in a hotspring.  I don’t suppose the rock wren cares, except that the hydrothermal process has left the rock cracked and full of holes, which is just what a rock wren likes.  Click here for a tale about another hydrothermally-altered rock that hosted many organisms.