Thrashings

birding continues in new mexico for molly and joe.

shortly before we got back to work, in the third week of break, after mexico and patti, I first heard the thrasher. it snapped me out of the yard-induced stupor that had me slumped in chair. I was hearing it for a bit, but didn't really listen to it until after about a minute of it blowing real good. the thrasher, what I heard, is some kind of hep jazz cat. in fact, most characterizations of its "song" note a "phrase"-type structure. I was able to determine strains of a b-flat mixolodyian phrygian modal, but I would need my tuner to be certain.

(Hear for yourself--sort of [thrasher song]. The version I heard was much fuller with trills and tremolos, bouncing wildly up and down the scale. It has so far been the best part of the thrasher happening, and it has been quite a happening.)

well lucky me I had the audubon field guide and high-powered binoculaurs close by, and was able to identify the curve-billed thrasher, toxostoma curvirostre (this entire posting will rely heavily on the National Audubon Society Field Guide to NOrth American Birds, Western Region). I was able to distinguish this thrasher from other common thrashers because of its song, in addition to the prominent yellow eyes and patterned chest. Nice nuggets to put in the back of mind, unawares of just how close I would get to this thrasher and its mate.

Not one week later I took an unplanned, slightly alternate path to work. Allow me to explain with a simple diagram:



the green arrow indicates my normal daily commute, two blocks to alma. upon exiting the hidden door-gate I hem tightly to the wall, heading towards the sidewalk and south to court ave. because, really, why not go directly for the sidewalk? I don't remember what was happening the morning that I meandered around the cactus (the route indicated in blue), but upon my arrival in front of the fortress of thorns that guards our lot I was surprised by a rapid beating of wings, a thrashing perhaps, as the thrasher--those yellow eyes!--exited in haste, a nice jolt to both our mornings, hopefully.

[this shot was taken from the lot side, the author's view as he leaves his yard in the morning. it was taken days after the initial encounter. the red square is therefore an approximation of where the thrasher (blue square) flew out of on the street side. ed.]

I continued on to alma, where I sweep floors and change bedpans for a pittance, thinking nothing of that morning's episode, until, upon arriving home, I once again found myself standing in front of camp prickly pear. I thought perhaps to check for a nest of some sort. As you can see my mind and my day move incredibly fast. Leaning in, I spied not only the thrasher's (thrashers', I would soon find out) nest, but also two perfectly simple and tiny blue eggs. I now had to start the search for the other thrasher, the first thrashers mate, a game that would bring me not only deep into the world of thrashers, but also tenderly into the lives of this particular family.




One of the adults is slightly larger. They like to stay close by in the upper branches of the only two adjacent trees. I often see them with bits and choss hanging from their beaks. Though I haven't seen any feedings, it is quite fun to watch the adults swoop down into their thorny abode.

Over the next week and a half I watched anxiously as the eggs did nothing. Then, lo!, they hatched. They hatched into a pile of mush and feathers with two beaks, hardly a tweet among them much less a blistering flute solo. For 3 days they remained basically an undefined clump of bird matter, generally unmoving.
About 10 days ago, the babies switched into growth mode, quickly excelling through toddlerhood, childhood, and adolescence. Here they are in their brief childhood.

Skip ahead to the present. I spend at least 15 minutes any day I can watching the thrashers. Some days I have spent 30 minutes, watching, reading, cataloguing, and photographing the thrashers. I can't say they appreciate my presence, but I have also been careful to not seriously disturb them. Just today I may have rescued one of the adults from our tiger-beast, olive (any doubts about that banshee's ferociousness should be addressed to the pile of feathers I found in my dining room the other day). The young pups are now entering their young adult years, which, in bird time, equals roughly 18 human hours.


I believe my time with the thrashers is drawing to a close, so short and tender. The adults have certainly become more aggressive since juniors started leaving the nest. One or both of the adults will swoop down to within 2 feet of my face if I approach the nest, as this one did today.
In less than two weeks, the young babes look poised for flight, lacking only the large and downward-curving bill and those prominent yellow eyes. As they gain independence and eventually fly away, I hope they won't forget the blonde stranger who did fertility dances for them and fed them a slurry of earthworms and granola that had been prepared with his own teeth. I know I won't soon forget them.