At the heart of the American Dream is a yard with a white picket fence, and in the dreams of American birders, that yard is filled with birds. We all love to wander the great outdoors, but sometimes you just can’t. Sometimes you have the flu, or you have visitors to entertain, or you’re expecting a very important delivery of fancy cookware you do not understand how to use (i.e. wedding gifts). Why shouldn’t those times be birdy too?
In that spirit, we birders put out feeders, hoping to lure the birds in by appealing to their laziness. I’m not a homeowner, nor do I have a proper backyard – it’s more of a concrete slab – but for the first time in my adult life, I have outdoor space of my own. Not only that, but I live in an area replete with interesting birds. So I decided it was time to get in on the feeding act. Encouraged by the near-constant presence of the local hummingbirds, I opted to start with a hummingbird feeder.
The idea of a hummingbird feeder is simple – a cheap plastic container, brightly colored so as to mimic flowers (the birds’ natural food source), filled with a mixture of sugar and water. The birds hover over it or sit on a perch, and use their long tongues to lap the nectar out. Bingo – easy calories for them, a convenient place to watch hummingbirds for me. Everybody wins.
So I picked up a feeder at the local backyard nature store, and today during my lunch break (I work from home), I mixed up some sugar-water, filled the feeder, and hung it from a branch in my backyard. Open for business. Let the drama begin.
Since I see Allen’s Hummingbirds many times during the course of a typical day, I’m confident there will be action soon. I move my desk to the most advantageous position so as not to miss a thing. Warily, I get back to work.
Nothing happens for a little while – not too surprising, since the “yard” is small and the birds seem to roam around the neighborhood. But twenty-five minutes in, a female Allen’s Hummingbird zips in and perches on a branch. She’s maybe four feet from the feeder, but facing away from it. My heart pounds. I watch her sit there, getting a close look through my binoculars, searching her tiny face for some sign that she recognizes her good fortune. Just take the food. Are you too good for your food? After a few seconds she lifts off, turns around, and hovers at a small flower as if to feed – a flower directly above the feeder. It’s not even brightly colored for chrissakes, but some withered-looking little brown thing. She pauses there for a second or two, then buzzes straight out of the yard, out of sight, as quickly as she came.
So close. But after that, it’s quiet. A birdless hour goes by, and paranoia creeps in. What if they never come? What if they have all the food they could want already? What if my whole life is a farce, and the reality is that the hummingbirds actually built my home so as to lure me in, and while I stare out one window at the pointless feeder, they’re staring in through another window, marveling at this odd human behavior? A quick glance around at the other windows fails to confirm this, but I know it doesn’t disprove it either. My countenance darkens.
In that spirit, we birders put out feeders, hoping to lure the birds in by appealing to their laziness. I’m not a homeowner, nor do I have a proper backyard – it’s more of a concrete slab – but for the first time in my adult life, I have outdoor space of my own. Not only that, but I live in an area replete with interesting birds. So I decided it was time to get in on the feeding act. Encouraged by the near-constant presence of the local hummingbirds, I opted to start with a hummingbird feeder.
The idea of a hummingbird feeder is simple – a cheap plastic container, brightly colored so as to mimic flowers (the birds’ natural food source), filled with a mixture of sugar and water. The birds hover over it or sit on a perch, and use their long tongues to lap the nectar out. Bingo – easy calories for them, a convenient place to watch hummingbirds for me. Everybody wins.
So I picked up a feeder at the local backyard nature store, and today during my lunch break (I work from home), I mixed up some sugar-water, filled the feeder, and hung it from a branch in my backyard. Open for business. Let the drama begin.
Since I see Allen’s Hummingbirds many times during the course of a typical day, I’m confident there will be action soon. I move my desk to the most advantageous position so as not to miss a thing. Warily, I get back to work.
Nothing happens for a little while – not too surprising, since the “yard” is small and the birds seem to roam around the neighborhood. But twenty-five minutes in, a female Allen’s Hummingbird zips in and perches on a branch. She’s maybe four feet from the feeder, but facing away from it. My heart pounds. I watch her sit there, getting a close look through my binoculars, searching her tiny face for some sign that she recognizes her good fortune. Just take the food. Are you too good for your food? After a few seconds she lifts off, turns around, and hovers at a small flower as if to feed – a flower directly above the feeder. It’s not even brightly colored for chrissakes, but some withered-looking little brown thing. She pauses there for a second or two, then buzzes straight out of the yard, out of sight, as quickly as she came.
So close. But after that, it’s quiet. A birdless hour goes by, and paranoia creeps in. What if they never come? What if they have all the food they could want already? What if my whole life is a farce, and the reality is that the hummingbirds actually built my home so as to lure me in, and while I stare out one window at the pointless feeder, they’re staring in through another window, marveling at this odd human behavior? A quick glance around at the other windows fails to confirm this, but I know it doesn’t disprove it either. My countenance darkens.
Who could resist? (Answer: Every bird.)
The days are short this time of year, and as the afternoon winds down I realize it’s probably not happening today. After a restorative walk around the block, I return to find the feeder still unoccupied. Ah, well. The sun is setting, and I’m at peace with my failure, which when you think about it really just means the birds are too dumb to figure it out. (Yeah!) Whatever, it’s cool. Tomorrow’s another day, and unless the superintelligent hummingbird legislature has adopted a resolution to boycott my yard, there will be more chances to see them.
For the sake of my inner calm, though, I might move my desk away from the window.
For the sake of my inner calm, though, I might move my desk away from the window.
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