Magee Marsh is a birding center on Lake Erie, about 20 miles east of Toledo, Ohio.
Saturday there was high drama there as a brown wren (look hard—she’s camouflaged against the dead tree trunk) tried to invade the nest of the flashy yellow Prothonotary Warbler (sorry I couldn’t get a better shot of him—believe me, I tried). If you'd like a better look, try here:
http://www.google.com/search?q=prothonotary+warbler&ie=utf-8&oe=u
The world of birds is a cautionary tale. For example, which is more interesting, the flashy bird or the plain bird who goes about his business? Or is it the tangle of trees always pretending to remain in the background, leaves and bark, shadow and light, and all of them contending for attention, dwarfing the critters we thought we came to see?
So it might be worth noting that the warbler had been warbling about his territory for an hour or more; the sky and all those trees were his. "Hey, baby, come look at my etchings." Or "Them's my etchings and that's my woman, so beat it, bud." I don't speak bird well enough to be sure which song he sang, but his music was talking the talk.
The highly desirable abode, the point of contention between him and the wren, was a cavity just below the several woodpecker holes in the rusty-brown part of the dead tree. (Slow down! Look carefully! This is not a race!).
Rumor had it that in bird brains this amounted to a gated community full of McMansions. No wonder it was hotly contested. It was where you lived if you were somebody.
I don’t want anyone losing sleep over images of bird combat for territory, so I’ll clarify that I didn’t witness any birds in aerial dog fights or thundering, head-butting land battles. However, other (legitimate) birders were abuzz about the imperialistic escapade and the wren's daring. Or was it deceit? Their tones were both excited and worried. I did and I didn't want to know what they knew.
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