Wild About the City » Exploring nature in the urban environment

I got a special treat this week — saw a pair of killdeers at the beach. In all my years of walking around our Beach neighbourhood, and more particularly Ashbridge’s Bay Park, I have never seen or heard a killdeer. At the Leslie St. Spit, that’s a different story. There I often hear their highly distinctive and identifying call, even if I don’t get to see one.

So it was with rare delight that I first heard — then actually saw  — a pair of killdeers (Charadrius vociferus) running along the rocky shore by the main footpath. With a rare evening free, I had dashed out to catch the last of the day just before the sun set (at an astonishing 8:59 on Monday night!) I didn’t have much time, so was doubly pleased when I came across the killdeers. It was the reward I got for making the effort to haul out the camera gear and go.

As you can see from the gold light in the picture above, it was already past 8:30 p.m. and the sun was moments away from dipping behind the horizon (in this case, the buildings and boats of the Ashbridge’s Bay Yacht Club.) I had just enough light to capture this image. In order to get any picture at all, I had to crank up the ISO in my ancient camera, which is why the picture is so grainy, but I felt it was worth sharing anyway.

Here’s to making the effort!

© BCP 2010

Lately, I’ve been wondering how birds tell time.

No, seriously. How do they know when to hand off incubating duties to the other spouse?

Yesterday afternoon at the beach, I noticed that our bay’s male swan, Tycho, was devotedly sitting on his nest (far from his old home in the inner bay) on property that I think belongs to the sewage treatment plant. I later saw his mate, Penny, swimming way out in the open lake to the south of the Ashbridge’s peninsula. Later again, I saw that after a visit to the inner bay to cadge some free human food), she made her way over to the nest to give Tycho a break. How did she know his turn at sitting was up, and that it was time for her to take over incubating duties?

I had exactly the same questions when I read about the reproductive behaviour of mourning doves before posting the above picture. My Smithsonian Handbook tells me that some research indicates mourning doves (Zenaida macroura) mate for life (like swans) — unless, of course, there is a death or infertility. And like the swan pair I watch, mourning doves take turns incubating the eggs in their nest. Wiki says that “mourning doves are devoted parents,” and rarely leave the nest unattended. The male incubates the eggs from morning to afternoon, females the rest of the day and at night.

How do they know when it’s time to switch? Of course, there are the usual cues animals use to tell time, like how long the days are, and amount of light. But how do they know on a cloudy or overcast day if it’s 2 p.m.or 5 p.m., and hence if it’s time to go and relieve the other parent.

So many questions. But that’s the magic of watching wild life in the city. Finally understanding that the animals around us know so much more than we give them credit for — like how to tell time.

© BCP 2010

Have you ever played a mind game with yourself that goes along the lines of, If I could only ever hear one sound again for the rest of my life, what would it be? I have. My contenders include, of course, the voices of my loved ones. But when I play this game with myself, that’s not what I really mean. I mean a particular sound, natural or manmade — it doesn’t matter. It could be the sound of a jet taking off, or the sound of a gentle rain in the forest. Or it could be a bird’s song.

For me, just about the happiest sound in the world is the loud, burbling-brook sound of a common robin. What a happy fellow he seems to be, singing from before dawn, when the streetlights are still on, ’til past dusk, when the streetlights are back on again. Most of my reference books describe the robin’s song as variations of cheerily, cheer up, cheerio, with phrases often repeated. Then there are the robin’s complaining calls, when danger may be afoot, that sound like tut-tut-tut, or hip-hip-hip.

Of course, there are lots of other bird calls that could be on my short list for best ever songs. I’m thinking of the hauntingly beautiful calls of the hermit thrush and the song of the veery, invariably described as ethereal in every guide book I’ve ever read. Any time I hear the songs of either of these singing stars, I am instantly transported up north, with a certain indescribably beautiful lakey smell in the air, and emerald green forests spreading as far as the eye can see in every direction.

Our robins may be as common as mud, but for me they are incomparably beautiful.

© BCP 2010