Migration, molting and mating magic #phenology

For one brief moment this morning, one of our deck feeders was simultaneously visited by a bright male goldfinch and a magenta-highlighted purple finch against a background of bright, white snowflakes. This being real life, by the time I had my camera in hand, both males were gone, leaving the more drab females in brown and white or olive, black and white, plus gray and white juncos. The visual impact just wasn't the same, although the seasonal snow-showers did prompt me to compose a couple of haiku:

red squirrel scampers
over snow-covered green grass
Minnesota spring

pre-scamper red squirrel

Photo by J. Harrington

Dutchman's Breeches blooms
blanketed by falling flakes
Minnesota spring

I also managed to get some pictures of the above-mentioned birds at the feeder, with the mating-colored male replaced by one in partial molt. The seasonal "breeze" was better for kite-flying than picture taking. Today, by the way, is the first time this season (whichever season it is) I've seen a goldfinch as brightly colored as this morning's earlier visitor. The juncos and some of the purple finches will probably keep heading north, while the goldfinches and some of the purple finches will continue to trade entertainment for food through the nesting and rearing seasons. I'm starting to wonder how long it will be and if we'll see scarlet tanagers, rose-breasted grosbeaks and other semi-exotic visitors this year.

wind-blown male goldfinch

Photo by J. Harrington

partially molted male goldfinch and pair of purple finches

Photo by J. Harrington

Spring Snow

By Linda Gregerson

A kind of counter-

blossoming, diversionary,

doomed, and like

the needle with its drop

of blood a little

too transparently in

love with doom, takes

issue with the season: Not

(the serviceberry bright

with explanation) not

(the redbud unspooling

its silks) I know I've read

the book but not (the lilac,

the larch) quite yet, I still

have one more card to

play. Behold

a six-hour wonder: six

new inches bedecking the

railing, the bench, the top

of the circular table like

a risen cake. The saplings

made (who little thought

what beauty weighs) to bow

before their elders.

The moment bears more

than the usual signs of its own

demise, but isn't that

the bravery? Built

on nothing but the self-

same knots of air

and ice. Already

the lip of it riddled

with flaws, a sort

of vascular lesion that

betokens—what? betokens

the gathering return

to elementals. (She

was frightened

for a minute, who had

planned to be so calm.)

A dripline scoring

the edge of the walk.

The cotton batting blown

against the screen begun

to pill and molt. (Who

clothed them out of

mercy in the skins

of beasts.) And even

as the last of the

lightness continues

to fall, the seepage

underneath has gained

momentum. (So that

there must have been a

death before

the death we call the

first or what became

of them, the ones

whose skins were taken.)

Now the more-

of-casting-backward-than-of-

forward part, which must

have happened while I wasn't

looking or was looking

at the skinning knives. I think

I'll call this mercy too.

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