For those of you who are afraid of snakes I suggest the little Brown Snake as the perfect antidote. Oops, probably shouldn’t use the word antidote here – it could conjure thoughts of getting bit and dying in the car while on the way to get said antidote from the nearest hospital 50 miles away. So, let’s just say that Browns are perfect snake ambassadors.  It would’nt be correct to say they would not hurt a fly but it would be fair to say they are quite harmless towards humans. They can be fearless and even borderline cute (if we need to get all feminine about this).

There is a very good chance that you could go through your entire life and never encounter a Brown Snake.  This is not due to rarity or nocturnal habits, but due to their smallness (about the size of hefty night crawlers), shyness, and browness. They blend into their earthy background both in color and habit. A single cream stripe down the back and two dark brown cheek spots are the only real décor on this well named snake. Because they feed on earthworms and slugs they spend most of their time crawling beneath the leaf litter. In short they are hard to see even when seen.

I nearly stepped on one while walking the brown dirt dike road at Pointe Mouillee. This individual was soaking up the rays of the morning sun and was so engrossed in sun worship that it did not even flinch as I performed an awkward avoidance step. It appeared as a blade of grass on the path. My typical tactic in such cases would be to pick the thing up and provide you a few “in-hand” shots but I opted to leave the critter in place on this occasion. I, instead, came down to his level.

I often tell my “students” (those who either want to or have to listen to me) that about the only way to judge a snake’s emotion is by counting the tongue flicks. Because snakes can’t blink or exhibit “squishy puppy eyes” it is hard to tell exactly what they are thinking at any given time. Many folks believe that all snakes are thinking about killing people all the time and therefore such a judgment is un-necessary. I will not respond to such foolishness as exhibited by some people all the time. No, snakes will typically flick their tongues out more frequently when they are curious or worried – whenever more information is needed. A slow flicking snake is a bored or extremely cold snake. A non flicking snake is either sleeping or dead.

The tongue provides an extra smell sensing device. By capturing tiny particles of dandruff in the air and rubbing the tongue surface across a detector (called a Jacobson’s Organ) in the roof of the mouth, the individual is able to determine what is before it – foe, friend, or food.

My Brown Snake started to flick its tongue with great energy when I put the camera lens down to his level. Rather than attempt escape, he became extremely curious and actually approached the camera. I keep moving it back and the Brownie followed until touching the lens and eventually crawling under it.  You’ll note in the video sequence that typically the forked tongue was whipped out and flailed in both an upward direction and downward manner so as to “lick the air.”  In case you are wondering, this pointed appendage is soft to the touch and is difficult to feel even when it makes contact with your hand.

This friendly little fellow was only doing what any curious puppy would do. When puppies crowd the video lens we all post the images on You Tube. An equivalent snake video would probably be labeled “Snake Attack” or something. I am merely posting my inquisitive Brown Snake on this blog  to show that snakes can have legitimate personalities. My ultimate motive is to allow some of you (you know who you are) to touch the screen and see how harmless this particular snake really is (the result would have been identical should you touched him for real).

Depending on the time of day or season, I would be the first to say that Canada Geese are not worthy of any attention or worthy of only negative attention. On some days, in fact, I am tempted to take on the persona of a Sith emperor and declare “kill them…kill them all.”  As a Jedi, however, I must admit that even these geese have a right to live – they are native birds, after all. “Kill some of them…kill some of them some of the time” might be a more responsible mantra.  And yes, they are worthy of some positive attention – especially as it relates to behavior.

This is the height of the breeding season for Canada Geese and the local marshes resound with a cacophony of honking and flapping. Theirs nests are everywhere and the goslings are now hatching out by the droves. Muskrat lodges are perhaps the most common nesting site in our region – the birds rearrange the material, add a few down feathers, and the females nestle in for their month-long incubation period. When so engaged, the momma geese are very reluctant to leave. Upon the approach of danger (in the form of a Sith emperor or a middle aged Jedi, for instance) the birds instinctively reduce their profile by extending their neck out and down. They literally hug the surface and will remain in this pose until the threat passes. The body remains motionless but they track the potential predator with their head as they pass.

Non-incubating individuals, away from their nest, will do this same “neck out and down” behavior even if they are out in the open or with their newly hatched goslings. The act seems fruitless, or even ridiculous, when the bird is hiding in plain sight. Why do they do it, then? Part of the answer is that they really can’t help it (or better to say that most can’t help it).

This posture appears to be a hard-wired behavior – an instinctive move meant to provide protection.  In the natural environment such a move usually works most of the time. These mottled brown birds blend in well with dead vegetation whether sitting atop it or swimming among it. The act of extending the neck and dropping the head hides the bright white chin strap. When in the water, the birds will lower their chin spot beneath surface. Instinct eliminates the need to think about details such as immediate surroundings. So what if you look stupid 50% of the time – it’s better than being dead 100% of the time.

Canada Geese normally use this facial marking as a means of communication and will boldly flash the spot using a series of head bobs and tosses. By hiding it they also convey a message to their young when the time comes. When mom does the head flip and then the drop chin, the kids know it’s time to gather close. This move is equivalent to mom using your middle name in conversation to convey the seriousness of the situation (“You will allow me to look stupid and you will appreciate it”).

There is another aspect of this behavior that complicates things. First of all, not all individuals do this – which begs the question how some can turn this off. I watched one pair of parents obediently perform their instinctive crouch (shown in these photos). Another pair, only a few feet away, did not do the crouch.  Oddly enough the two families joined together and confidently swam away from the scene with 22 goslings in tow (normal clutch size is 5 per pair). Perhaps the oddest thing is that the youngsters do not mimic this head down behavior for the most part. I once saw an entire family crouch down and freeze but that was in a situation where they were within a clump of concealing grasses. Of course, little geese are still at the ugly duckling stage and do not have a long neck and chin patch to employ or conceal. In most cases the goslings remained head up and alert. They clustered around mom and tried to look as fuzzy and defenseless as possible! Late in life, when they have a long neck and a nest of their own, they will do just as their parents did (and theirs is not to question why but to extend and to lie).

Nature is full of finely twined inter-relationships and dependencies – wolves and moose, figs and fig wasps, middle-aged men and Tim Horton’s coffee. No one living thing can stand alone. I was reminded of this when I came upon a Ruffed Grouse feeding high in an Aspen Tree near West Branch, Michigan. The rotund bird was plucking the emerging flower catkins off the twigs as if they were berries. One cannot cite a better example of interdepency than that between the Ruffed Grouse and the Quaking Aspen. The two populations perform a sort of dance.

Ruffed Grouse, or partridge as they are known in these parts, are primarily ground dwelling fowl. They are, after all, camouflaged in order to blend into the forest floor. As chicks, they feed heavily on protein-rich insects but soon lock into a regimen of plant food ranging from hazelnut, birch, and willow catkins to acorns. Aspens, however, are the single most important year round food for Ruffed Grouse. They feed on the winter buds, spring flowers, and even the leaves.

This Aspen affinity necessitates regular flights up to lofty twiggy perches. Admittedly grouse look rather awkward when so engaged – especially during winter and early spring – and are exposed to attacks by large birds of prey such as Goshawks.  It is a benefit to their overall health to eat quickly and researchers have determined that a prompt partridge can fill its crop in as little as 15 minutes. Once filled, the birds glide back down into dense cover and digest their meal in cryptically-colored peace.

Not all Aspen trees are equal in the eyes of a springtime Ruffed Grouse. Only staminate trees, or male trees, are patronized by Ruffed Grouse. Like other members of the popular family, individual trees are either male or female. April is flowering time for Quaking Aspen and the fuzzy masculine flowers are called Catkins (just thought you’d like to know that for some reason).

Aspen Catkin

Add to this the fact that not all male Aspens are grouse-equal either. Not only do the grouse prefer older trees but, for some reason, only certain individual trees are considered worthy of their patronage. They will consistently feed at one tree while totally ignoring the one next to it. According to those same researchers who determined the crop-filling time mentioned earlier one mature male Aspen can provide enough food to satisfy a single grouse for 8-9 days. So, why ignore a perfectly good Aspen? The answer, my friend, is chemistry (isn’t it always!).

Let’s be brief about this thing. Buds and flowers from grouse feeding trees have more protein content than those ignored by the birds. They also contain lower levels of a nasty sounding chemical called coniferal benzoate. In short, the grouse know a good flower when they taste it. Good taste translates into high nutrition value. If you are going to expose yourself to danger you might as well eat the good stuff. None out of ten Goshawks also agree that the best tasting grouse come from the best quality Aspens.

The mystery – the dance element, if you were – is that grouse populations fluctuate on a regular basis. They are on a short 10 year cycle within a longer 20 year cycle. Although amusing sounding, it is serious scientific geek-speak to say that there are low-low years, high-high years, low-high years, and high-low years! The cycle within a cycle phenomenon has absolutely nothing to do with Al Gore or bad human planet-bashing humans. It seems that the Aspens are partly responsible for this, because in some years they are in-edible and shift their chemical allegiances. There are good and bad (as well as bad-bad, good-bad etc.) years for aspens and good and bad years for Grouse. This up and down grouse also translates to the grouse predators as well.

As a way to fully involve myself in this discussion, I decided to try a taste test. What’s good for the grouse is good for the naturalist, I sez to me-self. So, I selected a male flower from a fine-looking male specimen of Quaking Aspen, bit into it, chewed it, and the result was a bad-bad grouse face (see reaction shot here). Apparently my sample was one of those high coniferal benzoate types which tasted like a pine cone cooked in turpentine – in other words fit for a Martini drinker. I will need to develop my grouse senses further if I am to pursue this line of foraging.

I broke one of my own golden rules recently (rules fractured and mended many times). I try to take my camera everywhere I go, no matter how trivial the venture. Well, it doesn’t go with me when I cross the road to the mailbox, but that is only because of the fear that the thing would be destroyed if I ever got hit by a passing car. My camera-as-body-part concept stems from the fact that I am a lousy photographer and that I can make up for my inadequacies in this department by catching unusual things using digital magic. Call it serendipity or luck, but my camera and I have seen some great things together.

When I drove my daughter, Katelyn, to the University of Michigan for her Masters program interview I opted not to bring my magical digital camera. We were going to be zooming into and out of campus and there would be zero opportunity for any extended photographic endeavors. How was I to know that a very tame wild skunk would be out wandering around one of the dorm units in broad daylight. And what premonition could have told me that the thing would allow me to approach within a few dozen feet. Also, it is important to note that it was Spring Break and that there were no students walking about and that the campus was virtually abandoned. Did I mention it was in broad daylight?

I, without my good camera, finally convinced Katelyn to allow me use of her cell phone in order to capture some “record” of the occurrence. What you see here on this blog are from her camera phone. They are not bad, but…..o.k., I won’t say anymore about the camera or lack of. So, you are probably wondering, why this skunk was such a great opportunity?

Skunks, those black and white members of the weasel clan, are very nocturnal beasts. They come out under the cover of darkness to forage for lawn grubs, peer into trash bags, or sneak about under grandstands. Caught in the edge of a car headlight beam or spotted as a ghostly white “V” slinking through the inky blackness, they are like ghosts themselves.  Daytime sightings are limited to motionless (and odoriferous) roadkills or sick individuals who should not be approached under any circumstance. Healthy daytime skunks are a rare sight. My U of M skunk (some odd phraseology for a Michigan State Grad such as myself) was a rare beast for a rare day. It was prime for photograph….o.k., I promised not to say any more about this.

No two skunks are alike. This individual had a narrow white pattern and a mostly black rump and tail. Our little stinker was actively engaged in grub hunting. Stopping every now and then to dig small craters with its long front claws, he then probed the excavations with his flexible snout and extracted unseen morsels for a satisfying chew session. Often these circular holes are the only sign we daytimers have that our yard was visited by a black-and-whiter. The lawn around the complex was riddled with these holes.

The skunk ignored me until I was within 50 feet or so. They have poor eyesight but excellent smell – that is they can smell excellently as opposed to smelling good – and I am confident he knew that the creep with the cell phone was there all along. Upon my reaching his appointed “worry” zone, he paused to lock his gaze on me, sniff the air, then began to waddle along the building wall towards his den. The waddle became a see-saw gallop when I decided to keep up with him on a parallel track. My daughter kept up with me, although she didn’t confess until later that she was more than nervous about chasing a skunk. The thought never occurred to me.

Upon reaching his den, a hole under a concrete slab supporting the electric box, the skunk hesitated as if to see what I would next. I, of course, approached (at that point I don’t know what Katelyn did). About the time I reached 15 feet I did start to crunch the numbers in my head about spray distance. Later I found this distance to be up to 12 feet. Fortunately the skunk decided to duck into his hole at this point.

He didn’t retreat deeply, however, and remained just inside the entrance to peer out at the two interlopers. Scraping in a few leaves, he kept fairly nonchalant about the whole thing until backing in out of sight.

That, as they say, should have been that.  I returned a few days later with my magical digital device to see if I could get a second chance. It was the same time of the morning, and the campus was still in quiet spring break mode. Of course, the skunk was nowhere to be seen and I was skunked. On top of this disappointment I discovered that his den hole had been thoroughly plugged with bark chips and dirt by the grounds maintenance staff.

The skunk story, at least my part in it, was over. There was another secret entrance on the other side of the slab which leads me to believe our skunk will continue to operate. Perhaps he’ll revert back to night mode so that he will be undetected. As a University animal he should have been a bit smarter. I too will be smarter about my golden rule from now on.

Although there were other more important, and religiously topical, reasons for heading south over the Easter weekend one minor cause involved Spring chasing. The season advances northward about 15 miles a day – or so they say.  So, like an excited dog greeting his master’s car at the end of a long driveway we were able to meet spring at its current position and hurry back home to await its coming. We met the front lines at Knoxville, Tennessee. There, even though the weather was cool, things were pushing up and out.

For a northern Naturalist this was a great treat and I trust you southern types will excuse me for fawning over common stuff. Ya’ll come up here sometime and you’d do the same. Believe it or not I even spotted a pair of Ivory-billed Woodpeckers, a Passenger Pigeon, and a single large Easter Bunny. No matter where you are from these are rare sights (explanation to follow).Ijams Nature Center (pronounced “eyems in northern speak) provided the primary opportunity to ramble in a piece of wild land along the Tennessee River.

The Cutleaf Toothwort and Bloodroot of Ijams were already past their peak. The delicate white petals of the Bloodroots lay scattered on the forest floor as a result of some bad treatment by a heavy rainstorm. Perhaps the most prominent wildflowers of the day were the showy triplicate leaves of the Yellow Wakerobin – an Appalachian representative of the Trillium clan sometimes called the Toadshade. Out of some 38 species of Trillium in North America, the Wakerobins offer most of their beauty in the mottled appearance of their leaves. The flowers are slender and reduced when compared to other Trilliums, but the leaves rival those of the Trout lilies in décor.

Tree lichens sprouted in little puffs here and there. One species, called Bushy Beards (I name which I especially lichen!) is fond of maple trees. Flat-topped structures – called Apothecia” – are spore-producing devices. Neither straight plant nor pure fungi, lichens are the result of a joint effort joining the two worlds. In this case the co-operation of an algae and a fungus creates an out-of-this-world look that is very much of part this world.

As if to invoke a previous season, clusters of Mistletoe can be seen along the entire Kentucky/Tennessee route. These are parasitic plants which root into the fiber of large trees. Because they are evergreens they stand out in the stark leafless world of the early spring treetops. Few sprouts are visible low to the ground and must be “picked” via a long lens. The fleshy sprouts and their winter berries are a Christmas favorite. Because this is not Christmas and we are trying to move on to the next season, I will quickly move on to more seasonal concerns.

A lone Hermit Thrush hung around long enough to allow its portrait. Unlike the Mistletoe these reclusive birds rarely venture more than a dozen feet from the ground and restrict their feeding activity to the forest floor. Quite a few Hermit Thrushes overwinter in the north, so this one can’t necessarily be labeled a spring migrant but it could be and that’s enough for a winter-wearied soul. In a nice accident of historic timing, we were able to match this bird to an early portrait of the same species done by pioneering naturalist Mark Catesby in the early 18^th century (see lower right). Original plates from his Natural History of Carolina, Florida, and the Bahamas published between 1729 and 1747 were on display at the University of Tennessee’s McClung Museum. These are among the first published images of New World life for a hemisphere-wearied European population.

As part of another accident of place, we discovered that the Ijames Nature Center displays several unique and treasured specimens of wildlife now long gone from the scene. Their female Passenger Pigeon was a nice example but their pair of Ivory-billed Woodpeckers was simply spectacular. One rarely sees specimens of this extinct bird (believed extinct by most sane folks). As a matter of fact when these birds were offered to the center by a local estate they came out of virtual obscurity. Their existence was unknown to the scientific community until quite recently. It was, therefore, both a treat and a trick to see them because they invoked dual feelings of wonder and sadness.

Quite the opposite of the rarity of the dead Ivory-bills and Passenger Pigeons, live Northern Mockingbirds were ever-present throughout the region. One bird paraded just outside our hotel window and split his time between the shrubbery and the road sign next door. In the bush it was easy to see the relationship of this bird to the Catbird. Atop a stop sign, its display of ample tail-hood marked it quite distinctive from any catbird you’ll ever see.

I will normally go through a decade of existence before seeing one of these southern birds in Michigan but down here they are as flies on a roadkill. They are a constant part of the soundscape as well – repeating all local bird calls as if on a recorder. It is no wonder that in the southern literature and song these birds are also everpresent – as in “to Kill a…” and “Momma’s gonna buy you a …”

Alas, the Mockingbirds will not follow us north to Michigan, but that Tennessee spring season should be here any minute now…any minute. The Easter Bunny, of course, was everywhere at once and miraculously the very same bunny I photographed at Ijams was simultaneously knocking at our door back in Michigan.

I was trying to think of some suitable phrases that would sum up the spring of 2013, but was having a difficult time without using some bad words. This is not a terribly cold example of the season, but when compared to last year it seems as if we are in the throws of an Ice Age.  We Michiganders are blissfully equipped with selective memories, however, and this keeps us going from year to year. Most of you will recall – if you really try – many years when the first week of April saw snow and hard frost. So, it is what it is and this is nothing more than a horribly average Spring. Let’s just take the artistic route and simply state that “the ground is willing but the season is weak.”  A few sunny days will snap everything into back into alignment just like a seasonal chiropractor.

A late winter/early spring nature walk in this style of year can be a challenging experience. Nature reserves her dramatic feats for the later season but the signs are there none-the-less. One must look at the details in order to appreciate that things are a-changing.

Aching to bust out of the house I embarked on a short local walk just to see what could be found. The day was chilly but the sun burst forth with bouts of tolerable warmth on several occasions. The landscape was still basically a winter one at first glance. One small Gray Dogwood shrub – part of a cluster of small trees in a prairie planting – sported multiple Praying Mantis egg cases. I never tire of looking at these amazing structures and this sight was unusual in that there were multiple egg clusters in one small area (perhaps the product of a single, and very fertile, mantis). A bit further down the trail there were a dozen ball galls in a small grouping of Goldenrods. Again, the presence of multiple galls on a single stem is unusual and given that at least two of the plants had double structures, it was worth a pause and a picture. Inside each of these balls a tiny gall wasp grub awaits their seasonal signal to emerge.

The wood edge revealed a small Hazelnut bush in a location I had passed many times before. Once the place is leafed out, this small nut-bearing shrub will be all but invisible (see beginning picture). On this day it advertised with dangling male catkins (flowers) suspended from select branches. They were not “open” yet but certainly on the cusp of doing so. The female flowers – tiny ruby red tufts – were not yet out, although these flowers are difficult to see even when they are out. No doubt I will forget the Hazelnut’s location when I’m seeking the rich-flavored nuts this autumn. That short-term Michigan memory will allow me to re-discover this plant next spring and for many springs to come.

A mat of spaghetti draped over a Dogwood bush was another “winter” scene highlighted on this spring day. The explosion of pasta, contrasting with the red twigs, looked like the wiring inside of a phone junction box. This spaghetti matte was actually a cluster of Creeping, or Swamp, Dodder vines– a leafless parasitic plant that derives all its needs from a host plant. Dodders are rooted in the wood of their hosts. In this case the red branches of the dogwood were the unwilling hosts to the pale yellow vines of the Dodder. It is not hard to imagine why “Witches hair” is the common name for this plant (assuming, of course, all witches are blond…).

The reluctant day finally yielded some true spring animal life in the form of some obscure low-flying insects. They were on the sunny side of the path and appeared to be of two different makes. Most were completely, non-iridescent, black and these were the most active of the bunch. The other was also black but had a bright orange-red thorax with a pumpkin face on it. The true meaning of the difference became apparent when one of the all-black individuals made a move on the pumpkin-thoraxed one. The two tussled for a short while before the colorful one kicked the other one off. In other words we had a male/female pair – or, as in this case, a non-pair in which the non-blond one rejected the small dark stranger.

I didn’t know it at the time, but later research showed these animated creatures to be Sawflies. Prior to my seeing them they would have been “I will see” flies, but after the fact they could be declared as “saw flies”. I will not declare them as such because the name comes from the saw-like egg-laying structure found on the female – a device which she uses to cut a slit into leaves for depositing her eggs – and not from any grammatical reference (as in “I was trying to be funny”).

This particular species is without a good common name. It is technically called Dolerus unicolor. I am not smart enough to tell you what Dolerus means but unicolor refers to the single (uni), all black, color of the males. Unfortunately this makes no sense in reference to the female since she is definitely bi-colored. Before we get all tied up into a feminist knot let’s remember that the males were described as a species long before it was realized that the females were so different. She was required to take on the family name, so to speak.

Uni-colored Sawflies are among the earliest of the sawflies to emerge in the spring – having spent the winter underground as a pupa. It is only at this early stage of the season that I would have found it necessary to spend so much time with a tiny, poorly-named creature as the all-black-but-not-always- seen-saw-fly. Soon there will be lots to talk about after spring has become sprung.

When viewed by a distant perceiver

the Nutria could pass for a Beaver.

But up close it is plain

you’d be somewhat insane

to claim you are still a believer.

Thanks to the maxims of one of my children’s grade school teachers I realize that whenever you point an accusing finger at anyone that three of your fingers are pointing back at you!  In church, I learned that he who throws the first stone should be without sin. So, with all that piled on top of my conscious I freely admit that I am full of fault. I once took a tiny plastic alligator when I was in Kindergarten (I was forced to return it, but certainly would have if given enough time).  Now that all that has been said, I will now point a finger.

Photo in “Beaver” Article

My respectfully humble, yet righteous, finger is currently directed at the recent Winter Issue 2013 of the Detroit Zoological Society- a magazine called “Habitat.” I am not a member, nor have I ever been a member, of the Society but just happened upon the issue. The magazine’s feature article discusses the new underwater Beaver habitat under construction at the zoo. It also features a nice little side bar highlighting Fast and Fun Beaver Facts such as the four “powerful, orange-colored teeth.”  The piece is illustrated with three large color photographs (see above and below).

Page 2 of “Beaver Article

In all, it is a beautiful article and overall I have no quarrel with the content. Although teeth can’t be “powerful,” I would be getting picky beyond belief if this was my tact. So, what’s the issue with this issue? All three of those photographs are of a Nutria rather than a Beaver.  Let me repeat – the pictures show a well-fed Nutria instead of a flat-tailed North American Beaver. If this publication was from AARP or something, I would not be so quick to point fingers since the two creatures can be confused with blurred vision. Because we are talking “Zoological Society” here I feel the fault more egregious.

The two creatures are similar but not THAT similar. Nutrias, are aquatic rodents in the style of a beaver but there the resemblance ends. Your run of the mill Nutria will be 17-25 inches long and weigh perhaps 15-20 pounds while the beaver averages 25-40 inches in length and weigh 35-60 pounds.  The tail of the Nutria is round and that of the beaver is, well, you know that one – flat. Our magazine photo mistake could be attributed to the lack of a tail view except for the following fact. Perhaps the single most noticeable Nutria-ic trait is the presence of a distinctive white muzzle and a brace of thick whiskers. In contrast the beaver looks like Baby Huey next to the Walrus faced Nutria. So:

A Nutria is to a Beaver

like a fox is to a retriever.

Though related they are

only when viewed from afar

is there a chance of mixing up either.

Let’s finish this thing up by saying that Nutrias don’t chew wood – even though they have “powerful teeth” and their grizzled dull brown fur contrasts with the subtly toned reddish brown fur of Le Castor (le Beaver).

Native Nutrias are from southern South America and there they are known as Coypus. They made their way into North America when some transplanted individuals escaped from a Louisiana fur farm in the 1930’s. Since that time they have spread throughout the south and up the Atlantic coast – even making their way to Cape Cod (which is where I had my one and only wild Coypu sighting).  They are destructive beasts that rip up vast stretches of marshland and therefore are the primary target of many State Game Agency eradication programs.  There is a continued movement to harvest the nutria for their pelts and one company, called Righteous Furs, is promoting their Nutria fashions.  They claim that nutrias are really nothing more than beavers with Cajun accents but they do so with a wink.

No matter how you frame the picture, Nutrias are not welcome here or on any magazine page passing them off as something they are not. I leave you with a final thought directed at the Detroit Zoological Society and then I will withdraw my pointed appendage. Expecting a Nutria to pass for a real Beaver is equivalent to expecting a picture of a large house cat to represent a mountain lion. No one would allow that mistake pass, now would they?

For a Nutria to pass for a beaver

he’d have to be quite a deceiver.

Keeping white whiskers hid

and his tail ’neath a lid

he just might make one a believer.

It snowed last night. Looking out the window I estimated that about two inches of the heavy white stuff blanketed the lawn and driveway. As I sat down to write my weekly blog my wife spotted a robin hanging out on the dry surface just outside the front door. I watched this bird for some time and decided to make it the subject of my computer screen words.

Robins are not a sign of spring – that is unless you view rabbits as a sign of spring. You will see Robins and rabbits in the spring but you can also see them on January 1. Not every robin sticks around – many migrate south- but a significant percentage of them remain. If you keep your eyes closed from October until the end of March, you can still consider Robins as sure signs of vernal arrival. The truth remains, however, is that these birds are actually well-adapted to cold-weather life (so are rabbits, but I’m not going to talk about them anymore)

Winter robins are different than the Spring/Summer robins. Winter season birds change their behavior. They become social, group together into sizable flocks, and concentrate on eating dried berries and fruits. Their plumage becomes mottled and that famous “red” breast pales to the color of tomato soup with a heavy dose of milk in it.

As the end of the season approaches the winter robins start to transform into spring robins. They lose the white mottling on their feathers and their colors become intense. The males especially look sharp as their head becomes rich black and their breast returns to its original tomato soup tone. The flocks break up and they return to their solitary ways. And, oddly enough, they begin to hate snow. They will do everything possible to avoid walking in it. Our front porch bird was well on the way to becoming a spring bird.

This bird was garbed in pure male colors and trying it’s best to perch in places that were devoid of snow such as under the car and the protected spot under the porch overhang.  Alternating between the porch and the crab apple opposite the living room window he was far from inactive or miserable.  At the crab apple he selectively plucked well dried fruits and downed them whole- just as he would on the coldest of December days. At the porchside he concentrated his efforts on a small pile of bark and dead leaves next to the planter barrel next to the porch.

As I watched, only inches from the sight, the robin dismantled the pile. While chickens and White-throated Sparrows will scratch with their feet and blackbirds will “gape” (open their bills) to pry through leaves, Robins reach and toss aside. Every few tosses, he would stop to stare and then pluck at a newly uncovered insect.

Given the gift of detail afforded by close examination, I could clearly see a record of this food hunt layered upon the bird’s bright yellow bill. A line of fruit debris marked the area high up on the beak and a layer of soil covered the tip.  Snowflakes speckled the black head feathers and complemented the white eye ring. I could even see the reflection of the very window that I was shooting pictures through in his eyes.

On this morning I was forced to go eye to eye with one of the most common birds in North America. This very same bird will be patrolling the green lawn in just a few more days when the calendar spring actually arrives.  It will become another common sight of the variety that will not even elicit a further glance. Thanks to my wife and my window I stared a winter robin in the eyes and saw the face of spring.