It is amazing how completely we are surrounded by life, and in spring it seems to make a particular effort to make us aware of its existence. Even more amazing, though, is how dreadfully unconscious most of us manage to be of it, being occupied with infinitely more important things like traffic and appointments and our own rendezvouses. Not that these things are in any disconnected from life, but we seem to pursue them as if they were not.

I speak as one whose amazement, this spring, has been nearly overwhelming, which leads me to wonder what I could possibly have been thinking about the past 27 springs of my life. I suppose I felt that pull of the blood, being after all an animal, but this year I have a new knowledge of the names of most of these noisy, exuberant creatures, and it has opened up a whole new world of perceptions. Once you know how to name something, you see it as something distinct from the background, and you begin to observe its peculiar nature. If you are fortunate enough to be able to draw you have undoubtedly noticed something similar: it requires an intimate knowledge of something’s form, and once you have drawn something you are unlikely to ever forget it.

A colony of robins (with the unfortunate Latin name of Turdus migratorius) has been living in the sycamore tree across the street for most of the winter, but the arrival of spring, with its winds and thunderstorms and bright skies, seems to have triggered a whole new concert of behaviors. The winds knocked down a lot of branches and twigs, and they will dive into the middle of the street to pick up anything that looks particularly appropriate. There is a lot of singing, and apparently much occasion for contention and disagreement, which leads to less harmonious noises and high speed chases. As Jack Aubrey once discovered to his chagrin, we humans have a hard time telling the difference between amorous and aggressive behavior; they both emanate from being, as who should say, “full of beans”.

The robins share their handsomely streaked chins with the California towhee (Pipilo crissalis), but almost nothing else. Towhees make a great deal of noise, too, but by foraging through leaves and detritus, for which they have developed a curious technique of jumping forward and then scratching backward with both legs. They are almost completely brown and a little jumpy, although at times their boldness, which they share with their cousins the sparrows, or their curiousity as to what happens to be under a particular bit of leaf, gets the better of them, and you will find one practically under your feet. There is something peculiarly sweet about them, in spite of their plainness. You almost always see them in pairs, particularly this time of year, and mates will call out to each other while foraging.

Live oak trees have leaves that are a little darker green on one side than the other, so you can be forgiven for failing to see the ruby crowned kinglet (Regulus calendula), because he is about the same size and color. The male has a little patch of red on his crown, but he only shows that off when excited about something, which is not too often as he spends of most of his time checking the undersides of leaves for bugs in a highly industrious manner. Spring gets to everyone, though, and occasionally you will see what I believe is their mating display: flying out into an open space and hovering there while making a great deal of noise.

Coming soon: bushtits, chestnut-backed chickadees, dark-eyed juncos, crows, and the black phoebe.

(cdm | BirdsOfBerkeley )